


The Island

by Lucy OGara (judo_lin)



Category: The Adventures of Sinbad (Canada TV)
Genre: Desert Island Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judo_lin/pseuds/Lucy%20OGara
Summary: AoS meets The Blue Lagoon
Relationships: Maeve/Sinbad (Adventures of Sinbad)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
> Rating: Explicit (sex, language)  
> Setting: Immediately after "the storm" at the start of Season 2  
> All standard disclaimers apply
> 
> A/N: I'm sure someone else has given AoS the Blue Lagoon treatment at some point, but here's my take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
> Rating: Explicit (sex, language)  
> Setting: Immediately after "the storm" at the start of Season 2  
> All standard disclaimers apply
> 
> A/N: I'm sure someone else has given AoS the Blue Lagoon treatment at some point, but here's my take.

He wakes on a beach.

Water laps at his legs, tugging, pulling at him with the receding tide. Salt and sand crust his eyes, his mouth. Groaning, he props himself up on shaking arms and vomits what feels like gallons of seawater. Salt stings his cracked lips, sand crunches in his teeth when he tries to swallow.

"Shh. It's okay. Just lie still for a minute."

That voice. He knows that voice.

" _Maeve_."

"I'm here."

He tries to roll onto his back but his head aches and his vision swims, nearly greying out with the effort. Panting, inhaling sand and salt water, he gives up for the moment, but reaches a hand toward the soft voice. Please. Please let it truly be her.

His fingers touch skin—a bare knee, warm and smooth against wet sand.

"It's okay, Sinbad," she repeats, and a gentle hand touches him, stroking the salt-stiff tangle of his hair. She brushes sand from his cheek with light fingertips; when her touch withdraws he protests, shifting his body, willing her hands to return. He needs the reassurance, needs to know she's here with him. "Just rest, sailor."

A shadow darkens the world behind his closed eyes. A moment later soft, velvet lips touch his forehead, his upturned cheek. He moans, his throat hoarse and rough. Gods, he needs her. He'd do anything for her—even jump overboard in the middle of a storm.

Doubar's horrified shout echoes in his head, his last image of his brother frozen in shock as he realized what Sinbad was about to do. But for Sinbad there was never any choice. Maeve, his Maeve, fell overboard, and a heartbeat later he followed.

She leaves slow, light kisses everywhere—his temple, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. The touch of her lips feels like the brush of a butterfly's wing, like rose petals warm from the sun. So, so soft. So incredibly sweet. Everywhere she kisses, the aches seem to vanish. He knows that's ridiculous and he doesn't care. This girl of fire, fierce and proud, angry and mistrustful, has his heart. He followed her into the storm-tossed sea because he can't be without her, because there was no other option.

Still, he's shocked to wake on land, in more or less one piece, with his fiery Celt kneeling by his head. By all rights they ought both be dead. Yet here they are, together, the rhythm of a gently ebbing tide as steady and sure as the beat of his own heart.

Moving carefully, slower this time, he turns onto his back. Maeve's gentle, smooth touch brushes sand from his eyelids. She shifts, her shadow playing against his closed eyes. Something wet and deliciously warm drags along his lower lip: her tongue. She licks his lips slowly, so achingly slowly, then turns her head and spits sand. A moment later her mouth returns and he moans helplessly, reaches up to touch her as she kisses him. His hand finds the smooth, graceful line of her throat, slipping under the fall of her hair and urging her closer. This kiss is salt and sand, the metallic hint of blood from either his cracked lips or hers. It's warm, so warm, and desperate, full of the knowledge that they shouldn't be here to kiss like this. They should be dead, at the bottom of the sea, bodies perhaps leagues apart—parted forever.

But they're not. They're here, alive and warm—hot, even, in the pounding Arabian sun. He inhales deeply, chest expanding with air, not water. Their mouths part, just for a moment. He can't stand the distance.

Squinting against the glare of the sun, he forces his eyes open. There she is, just a breath away. Her milky skin has pinked in the harsh, sea-bright sunlight and her hair is a riot of glittering red curls. She licks her sweet, plush lips, then kisses him again. And oh, she's everything a cold death at the bottom of the sea isn't: hot, fiery-sweet, vibrant as a flame. _Alive_. The exhilaration of defying death floods him with new energy and her sweet-hot mouth follows that with a deeper desire, a greater need, than he's ever felt before. They've come through the tempest together, binding them to each other in ways he doesn't understand but feels down to his core. He belongs to her now, and she to him. Understood or not, nothing will ever break this bond.

And right now he needs her—needs the reassurance of her body, the reaffirmation of life after so close a brush with death. With one hand he holds her to him, not breaking their kiss. The other slips between her kneeling legs, pressing them apart, urging her on top of him.

It's a huge imposition for two people who insist they're only friends and normally he'd expect a slap and worse for such an offense, but not today, not after the storm. She complies willingly, sliding one long, slim leg over him, straddling his groin. The heat between her legs presses his trapped cock, hard and aching, and he nearly weeps with the sensation as she settles that gorgeous body on top of his, breasts pressed to his chest, mouth hot as she kisses him. He groans, thrusting up helplessly, hand on the tight curve of her buttock as she meets his movement, pressing down as he pushes up. He aches for touch, for friction, for the deep fulfillment of connection.

She bites his lower lip with a sharp little nip as her hands undo the laces on his _sirwal_ , quick and sure. She lifts up slightly, just enough for his hands to slip between them. He grasps the base of his hard cock and slides a rough hand up her inner thigh. No fabric interferes. She's hot and slick between her legs, molten-sweet, and the little moan that escapes her as he strokes her wet heat makes his cock twitch. He guides her swiftly down, heart pounding as the head of his cock touches those slick, swollen lips, pressing in, pushing, insistent. She sucks in a deep breath, hands on his shoulders, eyes fluttering closed. He can't take his eyes off her, the look of intensity on her beautiful, delicate face, somewhere between pleasure and pain, lost in the sensation as they come together for the first time.

She's so tight around him, hot-slick, as he presses deep, deeper, his hands on her buttocks up under her skirt, pulling her down on his cock, urging her to take it all. There's no hymen to tear and he has no expectation that she's untouched anyway, but still— "Are you hurt?" he manages to gasp, stroking that taut, firm cheek under her skirt, kneading gently. They're still both fully clothed.

"Shit, no." Her eyes drag open, dark with want. She licks her lips, then lowers her head and nips the sharp line of his jaw. Her inner muscles clench and release around him, making him moan. "Don't stop," she begs, sweet and breathy.

Never. He squeezes harder with his hands and thrusts up as she presses down, then withdraws slightly. Slowly their rhythm builds, rough and needy, hips rolling, his fingers digging into her flesh, her teeth at his. Every third or fourth thrust he reaches deep enough to hit her cervix, and her muscles tighten around him. It's dirty and carnal and fantastic. He kisses her mouth punishingly hard, cock thrusting deep, desperate to be as close to her as possible. Her hands pull at his hair, curl around his shoulders as she returns his kisses with bruising intensity. This vital, animal need to be alive, to perform the act of life after so close a brush with death, thunders through them both as the surf pounds the shore, in and out, ebb and flow.

A desperate, high whine leaves her mouth, pleading as she tilts her pelvis, her muscles fluttering around him. She's close, on the edge, desperate to climax. He releases one buttock, slips a hand between her legs. There, nestled sweetly in that lush, velvety softness, he finds the hard little jewel of her clit. He strokes it gently with his slick thumb, her wetness coating his fingertips. Gods, he wants to flip them over, spread her legs, and lick and lick as she writhes below him. He can smell their coupling, almost taste it on his tongue, heady and visceral. His thumb swirls around her clit, slow, almost lazy, as she keens above him, wordlessly begging, putting her pleasure in his hands. It's all too intense and he knows she'll take him with her when she climaxes. He can't last. Liquid heat coats his fingertips; he speeds up his swirling circles just a little, just enough. Her breath catches in her throat and her whole body tenses above him for a long, perfect moment. She clamps down on him and he shoves deep, deeper, and erupts in a blinding, exquisite orgasm. Her body pulses around him, milking the seed from his cock, prolonging the pleasure as he fills her. An image flashes unbidden into his mind: his Maeve, belly swollen with his child. Reckless possessiveness fills him; his primal instinct is to fill her womb, to create life here, now, where they've somehow cheated death.

As the high of pleasure slowly fades, so too does the image. He groans and pulls out of her, his own senses returning, hands now gentle and reverent as he urges her to stay on top of him, stroking her hair as she rests her cheek on his chest. They're both panting, and sweat-sticky under their clothes. He tugs at the neckline of her dress, exposing one creamy shoulder, but she pulls the fabric back over her skin quickly.

"No way, sailor, not in this sun." She squints up at the sky, then raises herself and kisses his mouth gently. She's gorgeous like this, hair wild where his hands have been, lips swollen and dark from his kisses. "I refuse to look like a boiled lobster just because you're curious."

She slips off of him and offers him a hand. "I found some fresh water back in the shade before I found you."

Fresh water and shade are both vitally important. Now that his senses have returned, Sinbad can admit that. He takes her hand and they pull each other to their feet, leaning against the other's body weight like comrades.

Because that's what they are, first and maybe foremost. They're shipmates, captain and crewmember, allies and friends. They trust each other, look out for each other.

Maeve steadies him at first when they stand; he's dizzy. After being pitched around in the sea for hours, anyone would be. He's probably also dehydrated and needs to get out of the sun's glare. He won't burn like Maeve's delicate Irish skin, but too much sun can still make him sunsick.

As his head steadies, he wraps his arms around her. She hugs him back just as tightly. "Thank you," she whispers.

"For what?"

"For coming after me." She pulls away, gives him a sardonic look. "Come on. You didn't think I'd believe the master of the seven seas accidentally fell overboard, did you?"

He touches her pink cheek—she needs to get out of this sun, too. "Sweetling, I couldn't lose you."

The smile she rewards him with is impossibly tender and her warm cheeks turn from pink to red. That's adorable. She's adorable. "Let's go find that shade." She offers him her hand. "Doubar's going to be _so_ mad at you when he finds us."

Sinbad laughs as he takes her hand and squeezes gently. Together they start up the beach, away from the surf, toward a thick snarl of jungle. "He is," he agrees. Poor Doubar. He remembers all too well his brother's horror-stricken expression when he realized Sinbad intended to go after Maeve. "And finding us may take a while. There are a lot of tiny islands in this area."

"Inhabitants?"

"Not that I know of, though Firouz might know better."

They enter the forest, pushing past glossy, thick underbrush. At least with plant life like this there must be an ample supply of fresh water, and hopefully food as well. Maeve easily finds her previous track through the greenery and they follow it on a gently curving route, never too far from the shore. After about twenty minutes they emerge in a mossy clearing, a clear pool of fresh water before them, a narrow waterfall about twice Sinbad's height spilling into the far end. He spies Maeve's blue woolen cloak crumpled on a bed of moss, proving she was here before.

"Perfect! Well done, firebrand." The large pond surrounded by tumbled rocks and moss heartens Sinbad. They won't die of thirst, at least. Even in the shade his skin radiates heat, stinging slightly; it tells him he has, indeed, had too much sun. He shucks off his shirt and boots and jumps into the water.

It's deliciously cold, which tells him it must come from an underground spring somewhere on the island. He swallows mouthfuls of cool, sweet water before coming up for air, hearing Maeve's laughter as he shakes his wet hair.

"Come here," he urges, holding out his hands. He can't touch bottom but he can see it, smooth and pebbly, through the perfectly clear water.

She sits on the edge of the pool, dangling bare feet in the water. Long fingers undo her belt. Setting leather aside, she grasps the white hem of her linen dress and lifts it and the overskirt over her head in one fluid motion, dropping the fabric and diving gracefully under.

Sinbad's eyes widen. Under the water she's a pale blur. His hands reach for her as he treads water, touching smooth, warm skin. She surfaces in front of him. Water drips from her eyelashes, her wet hair auburn-dark. He reaches for her mouth with his, one arm snaking around her waist, pulling her against his body. Her mouth is warm, the water cold; he kisses her hard as his hand drops lower, palming her ass once again. She's slender and strong, long, firm muscles and the softest skin he's ever touched, just a touch of feminine softness to her breasts and buttocks. He's addicted to that ass and he hasn't even seen it yet.

Still. Coupling on the beach was one thing. Overcome with shock and relief at surviving the storm, they let their bodies do what came naturally. Once can be explained away.

But not twice. They have no further excuses. Twice means something, something he's not sure either of them are ready to admit.

"Maeve." He treads water slowly, one hand rising to cup her sunburned cheek. So beautiful. She's the prettiest girl he's ever met, and she means more to him than he knows how to say. He's a man of action; words are not his forte.

"It's okay, Sinbad." One dripping arm slips around his shoulder, her hand curling at the back of his neck, bringing their bodies once more into contact. She kisses his mouth gently.

"You don't have to—"

"I know. I don't owe you anything. I just want you."

He melts. Never would he have expected her to admit such a thing. Not out loud. Not to him.

"I always want you." He's rock hard again and knows she can feel it despite his clothing.

"Then what's stopping you?" She nips his lower lip. "No one's here. It may take a while for Doubar and the others to find us."

There's so much they really ought to be doing instead of fucking. Creating signal fires. Foraging for food. But when she's so close, that milky Celtic skin hot against him, he can't think straight and doesn't care. Later. It can all wait until later.

"Come here, then." He propels them to the pebbly shallows where he can stand, then spans her sleek waist with his hands and lifts her to the mossy bank. "You're mine now, firebrand."

* * *

"We should probably get up." It's a terrible suggestion. Even as he says it, Sinbad tightens his hold on Maeve's waist. She's warm in his arms, head on his chest, one leg bent and tossed carelessly over his. He shifts his head on the soft moss blanketing the ground and strokes her side slowly with gentle fingers.

"Mm." The noise low in her throat is one of repletion; she's liquid in his arms, satisfied and spent. "You're without a ship at the moment. I think that means you can't order me around."

"Like hell it does, woman. I'm still captain." He grins as he says it. Maeve never listens to him when she doesn't care to, anyway.

"Ah, but captain of what?" She laughs, slow and lazy, then stretches her whole body languidly, rubbing against him in the process. His body sparks yet again, but he's too tired for another round right now. They'll both be sore in the morning, he suspects. But oh, it was worth it. Her strong, slender body is so devastatingly beautiful. All that creamy fair skin, the parts often exposed to the harsh southern sun kissed with gold. Nipples like berries, more red now than pink from the attention of his mouth and hands. She's sleek, hairless save for a small patch of red curls on her mound. This isn't something he's encountered before, and he loves it—such silk-smooth skin, only the lightest dusting of white-blond peach fuzz, disappearing entirely between her legs, where she's slippery-sweet, plush and wet.

"Why haven't we been doing this all along?" He's musing more than asking, but she chuckles and responds.

"Because your ship, oh captain, is full of nosy sailors who gossip worse than old aunties."

Sinbad laughs. She does have a fair point. Doubar, Firouz, and Rongar are the worst, but even hired hands usually join in. On a ship there's little privacy and on his especially Sinbad has no expectation of any. It's too small and their lives are too closely bound. Working on ships since the age of twelve, he's used to this. Maeve values her privacy highly, though, and Doubar's constant teasing does get old.

"I'm worried about Doubar." Neither his body nor his mind want to be dragged away from this long afternoon of incredible sex, but the thought of his brother sobers him. Doubar is capable of running the Nomad, of that he has no fear. But he hates the thought of his brother's worry. Doubar will be frantic, terrified that Sinbad has drowned, when he's actually perfectly fine. More than fine. Maeve is his now, and he's never letting her go.

Maeve rises slightly to hover above him, tilts her chin up, and kisses him sweetly, her mouth both sensual and soothing. One hand caresses his cheek, her thumb stroking his skin. "You love him," she says, her voice as gentle as her touch. "Of course you're worried. I'm worried about Dermott, too. But Doubar knows what he's doing. He'll take good care of the Nomad for you, and find us soon."

"Maybe Dermott will find us, and lead the ship here."

"That would be nice," Maeve agrees, reluctantly pulling herself into a sitting position. Her long, lovely red hair is a riot of curls from Sinbad running his hands through it. She twists it up into a knot at the back of her head and reaches for her clothing. "He must be too far away right now. I can't reach him."

Sinbad wants to cry when she pulls her dress over that gorgeous body, but he makes himself keep quiet. She seemed to enjoy coupling with him and he hopes he gets to see and touch all of her again soon. But the responsible part of him, the captain in him, is right: they have a lot to do to prepare for the coming night. Grumbling internally, he pulls his _sirwal_ back on, foregoing his shirt and sash.

"How good are your survival skills?" He stands and pulls her with him, only now noticing she has no boots. They must have disappeared in the storm.

Maeve shrugs as she picks up her blue cloak. "It was just me and Dermott before we found Dim-Dim. Sometimes we'd trade work for food and shelter, other times we lived off the land."

Her answer is a relief to Sinbad. He can survive just about anywhere, but he was worried about her hardiness. For all her tough demeanor, there's a feminine core to her that likes to be clean, to wear fine clothes and be treated with deference. For a little while, at least. Then the grown-up tomboy returns, the fierce lass who demands to be considered the equal of any man.

"Let's see where this stream leads," Sinbad suggests, pointing where the water from the pool disappears into the thick jungle. "We can scout around a little, try to find a good location to build some shelter."

"Lead on, captain." She grins. As she teases him, Sinbad's pretty sure he's in love.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
> Rating: Explicit (sex, language)  
> Setting: Immediately after the storm at the start of Season 2  
> All standard disclaimers apply

They follow the deep, swift stream more or less straight to a broad, lovely beach. From the angle of the sun Sinbad can tell this is the western side of the island. Before them, rock and coral have made a beautiful, pristine lagoon. Clear blue water glitters before them, pale aqua shading to deeper hues as the true sea begins.

"Perfect!"

"It's gorgeous." Maeve stares out at the sun-drenched scene, golden sand and aqua sea blending into an azure sky. "There's nothing like this in Eire."

Beauty isn't quite what Sinbad meant, but they spend a minute appreciating the view anyway. "Can you catch fish with your hands?"

"Uh, in rivers, yes." She sounds unsure. "I don't know about the ocean."

"Then I'll do the fishing tonight. You can look for fruit or other edible plants, and see about a fire."

"I can do that." Maeve is being remarkably agreeable for her. Whether it's the situation or the sex, Sinbad doesn't know. Either way, he's not complaining. He sets off across the beach as she wanders back into the jungle, intent on both low-lying plants and trees. Already Sinbad has spotted date palms, but he doesn't know whether she can climb such spiky trees, especially without boots.

The water in the lagoon is warmer than the forest pool. Sinbad shucks off his clothes—she's seen him without them now anyway—and wades out. Fishing like this is second nature, something he and Doubar have done since they were small. He feels a twinge of worry again as he thinks about his brother. Doubar will be out of his mind with worry, and as Sinbad told Maeve, there are a lot of tiny islands in the area. Finding them could take days or even weeks, depending on the tides and how accurate Firouz's maps are.

A quiet vacation with Maeve would be fabulous under other circumstances. She's warm and willing, and he never wants to let her go. Being alone together seems to have calmed some of the prickly mistrust she so often exhibits. Whether this is just the aftermath of the storm or a true turning point Sinbad doesn't know. He hopes it lasts. She seems happier, and he certainly is.

But he can't relax—not fully. Not when he knows his brother is out there looking for him. Doubar's horrified bellow, calling for him to stop before he dove off the ship after Maeve, still echoes in his mind. He doesn't regret following her, will never regret following her. But he regrets the hurt he knows it caused Doubar.

When he heads back to shore with four small fish gutted and cleaned, Sinbad only has to follow the thin line of smoke to where Maeve sits in the shade, hands busy with broad green palm fronds. A robust little fire crackles near her, and she's removed her brown overskirt, leaving the white linen underneath. Two taro roots nestle in the hot sand and ashes, roasting, and she has several ripe mangoes resting on her blue cloak.

"Well, we're not going to starve." He places the fish on a flat rock at the side of the small fire, then comes to sit beside her.

Maeve laughs. "You'd have to try pretty hard to starve here." Her hands work with quick, sure movements, tearing strips of sturdy green palm fronds. Behind them she already has a pile of long bamboo poles.

"Good girl, you read my mind!" Sinbad kisses her temple and receives a roll of her eyes in return.

"I told you, I'm used to this." She wrinkles her sunburnt nose and tilts her head to the side. "Well, sort of. I've never tried roughing it on a hot, sandy beach. My experience is more with snowstorms. Oh, and mud— _months_ of mud." She shudders. "One thing I don't miss about the north is all the mud." Her hands work quickly, tearing and weaving palm fronds into a loose matting. The beach is warm and dry now, but drenching rains can and do visit this area. They'll want good shelter, and she's well on her way to making it.

"That sounds miserable." He curls his arms around her waist and pulls her back against his bare chest. She's warm, bare legs smooth and sleek in the dying daylight. He's always loved the sight of her skin and now the touch of it, too. Thinking of her bundled up in layers and layers of wool, leather, and fur, prepared for a northern winter, seems a shame. "Aren't you ever warm enough back home to take your clothes off?"

She laughs and turns her head to kiss his cheek. "No. Not from September to…oh, July, probably."

"Then how do people fuck?" It sounds barbaric. No wonder northern tribes seem so backward sometimes.

"Creatively." She leans forward and flips the cooking fish with careful fingers. Steam rises from their slit bellies.

"Tell me the truth, since there's just the two of us here. All the rumors about your people—are they true?"

"Sinbad, I'm surprised at you. You know better than to listen to rumors." She grins wickedly before settling back in his arms. He's…not sure how to take that. This girl has been an enigma from the beginning, the very first time she and Dermott knocked him on his ass.

"Come on. We're alone on a deserted island. Not even one rumor?"

"Why so curious all of a sudden? You never seemed to care before."

He uses some small twigs to turn the roasting taro roots. "I'm always curious. Sometimes I feel like I'll get my head bitten off for asking, though." He turns his head to grin at her. "Or get knocked down again."

She waves away the barb. "Dermott didn't like you back then. Besides, he isn't here now."

"Which is one very good reason to ask now, while I have the opportunity." He pulls her more firmly against his bare chest. Even in the shade she's warm; he loves the perfect heat of her body through her thin linen clothing.

"You can ask about one." She holds up one slender finger. " _One._ "

He has to think for a minute. The world is rife with rumors about the mysterious Celts and their twin islands on the western edge of the world. Even the Romans managed to conquer only the southernmost part of one island, building a wall and leaving the rest of it to the native tribes. They didn't even attempt to set foot on the western island, Maeve's island.

"Is it true that your festivals are full of sex rituals?"

Her brow wrinkles as she considers the question.

"You know, it's telling that you have to think about this."

She laughs, the sound warm and bright. Sinbad thinks it's very possibly his favorite sound in the world. The golden flecks in her eyes gleam. Despite being stranded, she seems more at ease here than she's ever been before, at least with him. Maybe the lack of people calms her, as she said before. Maybe it's their close brush with death during the storm. Or maybe she just really, really needed a good fuck. Or six. He lost count sometime during the afternoon.

"It's not true," she says slowly, tapping a fingertip against her lower lip as she thinks. "I mean, not _all_ of them." She pulls away, reaching for more palm fronds.

He hauls her close again, lifting her onto his lap, straddling his thighs. "Go on…"

"I think maybe some outsiders might have seen Beltane and blown it out of proportion."

"What's Beltane?"

"A festival for the start of summer, halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice." She touches his face gently, brushing her thumb under his eye. "You have the most beautiful eyes. They're the color of the ocean."

She seldom compliments him, and when she does it's usually backhanded or grudging. Sinbad smiles softly. Hearing such simple praise from her warms him more than the simpering of a hundred other women.

"Dim-Dim says I got them from my mother, she from her mother, who came from Gaul." A twisting ache of sadness twinges in his chest, as it always does when he thinks about his parents. He can't say he misses them, having no memory of them, but he misses the idea of them, of a normal childhood in a normal home, something he never experienced.

"So there's some northern blood in you, too." The back of her fingers stroke slowly down his cheek. "It's unusual around here. Doubar has light eyes, too, but his are more grey, like an overcast sky."

Sinbad leans forward and kisses the tip of her pink nose. "You're changing the subject."

Maeve rolls her eyes. "What do you want me to say? At night, all the women go into the wilds—forest or field or fen—and the men give chase. Catch-as-catch-can."

"And a night together is the prize?"

"Duh."

It's actually not all that lurid. Sinbad has visited many places that celebrate springtime fertility rituals. His people do not, but that Maeve's do isn't unusual. "That's not so strange. Why all the whispers about your people?"

She grins. "Eire is one of two places where the veil between our world and the realm of the Fair Folk is thinnest. On nights like Beltane, they often step through to join the festivities. Most Celts have a little otherworldly blood in us."

Sinbad bets this particular Celt has more than a little. He cocks his head to the side. "What's the other place?"

"Nippon." She shifts off his lap, to his disappointment. Gingerly she flips the fish baking beside the fire. "I'd love to see it, but it's so far."

"I've been." He watches her turn the taro roots. "A beautiful island, but the people take some getting used to. Their customs were so strange to me."

"Stranger than mine?" Maeve grins at him over her shoulder, wild red curls dancing in the fiery sunset light. In this instant she looks every bit the barbarian that she is, like all the rumors of her people come true: wild, pagan, fierce and free.

"Different," he allows, and reaches out to caress her cheek. She glows like fire herself as sunset bathes the sky in flame. "They're inscrutable. You're untamable."

She pounces. Without warning, not a single quiver of muscle or flicker in her eye, she's on top of him. His back hits the sand and he surrenders instantly. "You like me this way."

Gods, yes, he does. She's perfectly feral, a wild creature, though she can play at being cultured when she chooses. She's brash, headstrong, and has little respect for authority. She tests his patience constantly as both a captain and a man.

And he loves her for it.

His hands slide up her thighs, under her skirt, urging her to remove it. He wants to see her skin, all of her, in the flaming sunset light.

She allows him to help her peel the linen off and doesn't struggle when he rolls her on top of it, his mouth locked with hers. She's not shy about her body or her desire, at least not here, not with him. Her kiss is molten-sweet, as hot as the red sunset light. He strokes her tongue with his, hand on her breast, thumb circling the hard nipple. Her knees rise, her thighs cradling his hips, holding him to her. He's amazed at how strong she is, despite being so slender. Not that he's ever considered her weak, but now he can feel the raw strength of her, slim, feminine muscles hiding the truth under soft, soft skin.

When he pulls away, she's a perfect, molten woman of flame. Her skin glows dark gold, ruddy hair the color of live embers. Her sweet nipples are rubies, glistening when he licks them. Violent pink streaks the sky as he parts her legs and enters her. Inside she's liquid fire, slippery-hot, and her body moves with his, guided, molded by his, like the slow slide of lava across a landscape.

"I love you this way." He whispers the words into the sweet column of her throat. Her head tips back, breath heavy on swollen lips as he strokes her hard little clit, urges her to come for him. He licks her nipple, kisses the tender, velvet skin at the side of her breast just as she cries out and comes undone around him. At that moment he bites down hard, his own release rocking him deep into her, his teeth pressing, biting into that feminine softness. It's a possessive act born of the intensity of his emotions. He loves her—needs her. Jumped into the sea for her. Now she's his, and though there's no one else here to see it, he feels the irrepressible urge to mark her, to show his claim.

The sudden pain of his teeth sends her over the edge again, something he never expected but revels in, her body shuddering, writhing, milking everything from him until, beyond sated, both slowly relent. Tender now, he licks the mark of his teeth with slow, soothing strokes, one hand brushing her hair back, touching her temple, her cheek, her lips with soft fingertips. Her legs release him and he pulls out of her, his seed glistening on her soft folds, the inside of her thighs. She kisses him with swollen lips, so soft, so sweet, her movements languorous and slow.

Already the mark on her breast has darkened to deep burgundy. Sinbad knows how delicate her creamy skin is—the semicircle of teeth will be indigo by morning. He's come back to his senses but he can't regret marking her.

She sits up and touches the tender spot with questioning fingertips. "Huh."

She has every right to be furious with him. He waits for the explosion.

"I didn't know you had it in you." She kisses his mouth again softly, runs a hand through his hair.

So he's learned something new about this woman. And she's learned something about him.

As the sunset bleeds into night, soft violets and blues absorbing the previous radiance, the day's heat also disappears. Maeve pulls her clothes back on as Sinbad checks the fish, and she tucks herself close to his warmth as they eat. Both are ravenous after a storm-tossed night and then too much sun and sex. The fish falls apart in large, firm flakes with few bones, and Sinbad doesn't care that the taro is tasteless—it's hot and filling, and that's all that matters.

Fully replete, they lie back against the rapidly cooling sand. Maeve feels around in the dark and produces her blue woolen cloak.

"Can we just stay here tonight?" She yawns and spreads the ample cloth over them both.

They shouldn't, but Sinbad can't dredge up the need to care. He's exhausted, and there's a warm girl next to him.

"Yeah." That cloak is a godsend. Scorching hot during the day, the beach will be uncomfortably cold at night. He draws her close, sharing body heat. "It's a clear night. Tomorrow we should build a shelter, though."

Maeve curls into his side, so soft, and rests her head on his shoulder. He can feel the warmth of her sunburned cheek, the tickle of her silky curls. "And a signal fire. There's plenty of deadwood in the forest and driftwood on shore."

"Maeve?"

"Mm?" Her voice is low and sleepy. He loves it. He's entranced by her wild ferocity, but these moments of sweetness tug at his heart. It's a part of her she doesn't show often, especially to him. Maybe she thinks she has to always be the tough girl, the strong girl, to prove herself to him. What she doesn't know is that she proved herself long ago.

"I'm glad it's you." They're not the words he intended, and they don't sound right at all. But she raises her head and kisses the corner of his mouth with infinite tenderness.

"I'm glad it's you, too."

* * *

The morning dawns cool and breezy, with a lovely clear light, pale gold just gilding the surf when Sinbad opens his eyes. He stretches slowly, careful not to disturb the woman in his arms.

She's so warm as she sleeps, like she's fueled by the fire at her heart. Curled on her side, tucked into herself, she's shockingly small. Sinbad readjusts his arms and presses his torso against her back, where he's been for the whole night. He doesn't know if he's ever slept so soundly, so peacefully. Normally a light sleeper, part of his mind always listening for danger, he slept last night like the dead. Yes, he was mentally and physically exhausted. But it's more than that. Maeve does something to him, softens the wariness he's long adopted. Something about being with her makes him…peaceful. Content.

He raises his head from the sand to look at her as she sleeps. Such a beauty. Warm pink blushes her cheeks despite the chill morning. This girl is a bundle of contradictions—pale like her people, yet alight with fire. Often stubborn and intractable, but with hidden soft sweetness at her core, buried deep under layers of pride and invisible scars. Whatever she is, she is completely—she burns so brightly, refusing to lie, to become something else to please him or any other man. He holds the supple warmth of her under the blanket of her cloak, separated from her skin by thin linen. So hot, fire-sweet. The fear of almost losing her still grips him. His arms tighten around her and he nuzzles her throat lightly, breathing her in. He's never felt that fear before. Not so deeply—not like with Maeve. He fears losing his brother, fears never finding Dim-Dim. But when the Nomad lurched and Maeve fell overboard, it felt like his world went with her. Like the sun went dark and the stars refused to shine. Without the stars a sailor is lost, and so he dove into the roiling sea. To find her. To get back the piece of him torn loose.

Before the storm they played like children, snarking at each other, sometimes teasing, sometimes bristling with animosity. He seethed with jealousy every time another man's gaze lingered on her, but he refused to take the risk of being honest with her, telling her how much she means to him. He's never had to do such a thing before, and it made him uncomfortable. He's always been able to take his pick of women, no matter where he sails. Whomever catches his eye, she's always happy to please him. Dance for him, spend a night or two in his bed. He's never asked a woman for more—he's never wanted more.

But Maeve is different. Whatever Celt girls learn at their mothers' knee, it certainly isn't what local girls learn. Here, women are taught from an early age to be quiet, pleasing, ingratiating. Submissive. Obedient.

Maeve is none of these things, and doesn't bother to try. It grated on him at first, her audacity, her disdain for male expectations of her behavior. But there's a raw honesty to her he's come to value highly, something the well-behaved local women lack. Women have always been rather interchangeable to him, pretty, sweet things—toys he can play with, and forget about easily. But not this one. She refuses to be an object, and in doing so, she's made herself part of him. He can't explain it; they make no sense as a couple. He gets on her nerves easily, and she pisses him off with her flagrant disregard for his authority. But gods, he loves her. Needs her. And he intends to keep her.

She shifts in his arms but doesn't wake, subsiding again a moment later. He brushes long curls of hair away from her shoulder and eases the low neckline of her dress down past her breast, admiring the dark semicircular bite mark he left on her sweet, fair skin. None of his teeth broke flesh—that was never his intention. But the two blue-black crescents on the tender side of her breast were obviously made by human teeth, his possession of this woman bruised into her flesh. He kisses the mark softly, then presses his lips higher, placing light kisses up her chest, the side of her throat. Maeve inhales a slow, deep breath as she wakes and he nuzzles the incredibly soft skin behind her ear.

"Morning, sailor." She stretches, body moving against his, sensual and slow. Even as she turns in his arms, settling against his side, she winces. "Ow."

"Yeah, me, too." He kisses her forehead. "I guess it's to be expected. After all, we spent a night tossed around by a storm. It was bound to catch up with us."

"No, it's all the fucking." She rubs her eye with the back of her hand and stifles a yawn.

"Probably both." He drops a hand to palm her ass. It's like his hands can't get enough of that taut, firm flesh.

She moans low and presses back into his grip, even as she says, "Don't get started. We're supposed to work today."

"We will." He slips his hand down under her skirt, finding that enticing bare skin. He squeezes hard and she yelps.

"Behave! I'm sure you bruised my ass yesterday already without even trying to."

"Let me see." He shifts their bodies so he can rise, turning her carefully onto her belly. Lifting her skirt, he exposes the firm roundness of her buttocks to the cool morning. There are enticing pink handprints where he's just squeezed, but no bruising. "No marks." He bends and kisses the sweet dip at the small of her back, just before her bottom curves. "Did you want some?" He'll happily bite that ass, too. Or swat it. Although she did nearly kill him the last time he tried that.

"No," she says, laughing as she pulls her skirt down and sits up. "Not right now, anyway. We really do have work to do."

He arches an eyebrow and grabs her wrist, preventing her from standing. "Hang on a minute. Are you telling me you may _want_ a red ass at some point?"

She twists her wrist deftly out of his grip and rises, offering him a cheeky grin. "Guess you'll have to be brave enough to see, won't you?"

He scrambles up after her, following as she heads to the stream to wash. "If I recall, I've spanked you before. You nearly bit my head off."

"Yeah, I didn't like you back then." She tosses cold water in her face, shoves her sleeves up her arms and scrubs her hands.

Sinbad decides to chalk it up to another strange Celt thing. She's right enough that they have work to do. They need some shelter, because the fair weather won't last forever, and they need at least two signal fires, one on the beach and one on the highest point of the island. Doubar and the others have a lot of little islands to search. They need to do all they can to help.

They finish washing, Sinbad shaking cold, fresh water from his hair, and return to their little campsite. The fire's out, ashes cold, but they don't need it. There are ripe mangoes, as well as leftover cold cooked taro. Maeve slices into a mango with her dagger, a long, wicked thing meant for tearing flesh, not fruit. She wipes it on her brown overskirt, then thrusts it back into its sheath.

"Lucky you still have that." Sinbad tosses some sandy taro skin into the cold remains of the fire. "And your cloak."

"Lucky I wasn't wearing my sword, or I would have lost it. The belt's wearing through in several places." She bites into the ripe fruit.

"Same." It feels strange not to have his saber at his side, but it's safe in his cabin on the Nomad. As soon as Doubar finds them, he'll have it back. "I see you lost your boots."

She nods, mouth full, and wiggles her toes in the cool sand. "It's fine," she says after swallowing. "I like being barefoot."

This is true—Sinbad has seen her without her boots many times, though never aboard ship. He supposes fear of a wicked splinter through the heel is likely reason enough for that. "Just be careful out on the reef," he says, pointing to the edges of the lagoon, where sharp coral and rocks encrusted with limpets and barnacles can slice a man to ribbons.

"Noted." She sucks on the fruit clinging to the pit of the mango; Sinbad can't help but stare. She has the plushest lips, the sweetest mouth he's ever kissed. Once again he wonders why he took so long to touch her, to kiss her and keep kissing her. Now that he's tasted her, he doesn't think he'll ever want to stop.

If Maeve notices his stare she ignores it, finishing her fruit and dropping the peel and pit in the remains of the fire. "What's next, captain?"

"I thought you said I couldn't give you orders anymore?" He folds his arms over his bare chest.

She shrugs. "I wasn't sure you could handle stopping all at once, and I'm the only one here."

He considers the day's necessary tasks. "We need shelter and signal fires, and we need to scout the island, take stock of what sort of resources are available. Like it or not, we may be here for a while. The fish aren't going anywhere but I'd hate to use up all the fruit too soon."

"I can't take the full midday sun on the beach," she says, "so I'll gather driftwood before it gets too hot."

"Good." He traces the sunburn on her cheek with gentle fingertips. "Your skin will get used to the sun in time, but you have to take it slow. Too much at once will make you sick."

"I know." She makes a face. "I hate how your people make your women go around veiled, but in the full sun yesterday I was kind of wishing for one."

"You can if you want." Covering that gorgeous face is a crime as far as he's concerned, but he gets it. Her fair skin wasn't meant for the extremes of his climate. "I promise, I won't tell anyone when they find us."

"Where would I get the material?" She shakes her head. "I'd have to uncover something else, and then I'd burn there. Not worth it."

He chuckles. "It's up to you. Are you all right being left alone for a while? I'd like to scout around, see if I can find a good place for a higher signal fire."

"You men. It's like you seriously don't know how to listen." She stands, hands on her hips. "I told you yesterday that I'm used to being on my own. Besides, what danger could there possibly be on a deserted island? Are you afraid I might get a hangnail?"

"There's my firebrand. I wondered where you'd gone." He rises and kisses her smart-ass mouth. She may be unafraid, but he's still the captain, ship or no ship, and he's responsible for her. They don't really know where they are, and until he's scouted the whole island, he won't be able to quite relax. Not with her out of his sight. "I'll leave you to gather driftwood and work on shelter, then. Remember to drink water even if you're not thirsty, and keep out of the sun when it gets too hot."

She makes a face at him. "Are you going to remind me to take a nap, too?"

"If I'm not back in time to take one with you, yes." He pulls her to him, finding her mouth once more. Leaving her alone doesn't seem like a good idea, but they played yesterday when they should have been working and now they need to get back on task. He squeezes her ass through her skirt, earning himself a hard shove as she pushes him away.

"Go on with you now!" she scolds, pulling her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head and walking toward the tideline. "Go climb a tree—maybe Dermott will see you."

Sinbad hopes so. He gives her one last look before heading inland. For Doubar's sake, he really hopes so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I have a hard time figuring out what to call Maeve's clothing, and what the brown layer is supposed to be made of. Obviously the costume is a cheap synthetic but whether it's supposed to be leather or wool I don't know. At this time, leather and skins/fur, wool, and linen (made from flax) were the only widely available textiles. Silk was only for the very rich. Cotton was known in and around India but too labor-intensive to be widely used. Hemp was used but made only very rough fabric at this time. What do you think it is?


	3. Chapter 3

Scouting the perimeter of the island takes longer than Sinbad thought. He follows the beach, boots tossed over his shoulder as he walks in the warming sand. He's better at judging distance on the sea, but he guesses he walks between one and two leagues before the shoreline brings him back to the lagoon where he left Maeve.

She's nowhere to be seen, but a good-sized pile of driftwood sits on the shore, safely above the high-tide line. He assumes she's somewhere in the forest gathering deadfall, and pulls his boots back on before heading into the trees himself.

His trek confirmed that they are, in fact, on a small island, and there's no sign of any other inhabitants. He doubted there were, but it's nice to be sure. There's also no better spot for them to settle while they wait for the Nomad than the lagoon they found yesterday. The reef provides calmer water, which means easier fishing as well as shellfish and edible seaweed. The stream they followed from the inland freshwater pool provides ample nearby drinking water. They can survive here easily, even comfortably once they build some shelter.

As he pushes through the thick, jungly undergrowth, Sinbad looks above and below, assessing what the inner island offers. He's seen several date palms heavy with fruit, though he'll have to be the one to climb them. Without her boots, the spiny, spiky trees would slice Maeve's feet and legs to ribbons, and one thing they do have to worry about here is injury or illness. Without Firouz's knowledge or any medical herbs or other supplies, they're more vulnerable than usual.

He also sees a wealth of taro growing wild—the leaves and stems are edible as well as the roots, as long as they're cooked. Finding a way to somehow boil taro greens or seaweed isn't vital, but would be welcome. He also spies edible mallow in several places, as well as the mango trees Maeve discovered yesterday. Some forms of moss are edible but he isn't sure about the kind growing around their forest pool; he'll have to ask her if she knows.

Though there's an abundance of edible plants here, Sinbad sees little evidence of animal life. He spies and hears plenty of small birds, but they're tricky to catch and likely not worth the effort considering the proliferation of fish in the lagoon. Here and there on the sides of trees he glimpses the emerald flash of little lizards. He finds no tracks or scat of anything worth hunting, but also nothing big enough to be a threat to them. That's a relief. He'd much rather live on fish and seaweed for a while than have to compete with a leopard or wolves for game. Honestly, with the abundance of fresh fruit and greens, he and Maeve will eat better here than they do at sea. The typical sailor's diet of salted or pickled fish, gruel, weak ale, and stale water doesn't bother him, but Maeve loves fruit—a luxury in their world—and she can have as much as she likes here while they wait for Doubar and the others to find them.

The day has advanced past noon by the time he stops at the forest pool to drink. He hasn't seen Maeve since leaving her at the lagoon early that morning and he hoped she might be here now, cooling off in or on the edge of the pool as the sun beats mercilessly on the beach. But he doesn't see her, and she won't welcome him checking on her. So he pushes on, deciding to climb the rocky ledge from which the small waterfall spills, probably the fastest way to reach higher ground.

The dark volcanic rock is slippery with spray and slimy growth, but he scrambles up with a minimum of mishaps. At the top, he finds that he's more or less at the high point of the island. The rocky outcropping turns out to be a high ridge that slopes toward the south, slanting downward until it reaches the shore somewhere on the other side of the island. There's no good flat place to build a signal fire, but this task is vital, so he'll figure something out. It won't be as big as he'd like, but with Doubar's stubbornness, Rongar's loyalty, and Firouz's ingenuity, he's certain his crew will find them. Doubar won't give up, not for anything. They're brothers, and nothing is stronger than blood.

Sinbad look out over the top of the glossy green forest, at the blinding expanse of water around him. He sees darker shadows in the distance to the south—the hazy delineations of at least two other islands, too far to make out anything but the barest suggestion of land. He shades his eyes and stares for a long, long time, giving himself a headache, but nowhere does he spy the shadow or sails of a ship. He'd give just about anything for Firouz's magniscope about now.

Or maybe he wouldn't. Better for his crew to keep that. If Dermott can't locate them through flight or his mysterious bond with his mistress, someone spotting the smoke and flame of a signal fire is their best hope. Doubar will anchor at every island he can, searching on foot for them, Sinbad is positive. But as he told Maeve, there are many tiny islands in the area. Searching each one on foot will take time, and even with the best charts there's a chance they could be missed. They need a fire. Besides, any other ship in the area will stop if they see a signal fire. Even if he and Maeve get picked up by someone else, they'll be able to meet up with their crewmates much more easily than if they remain stranded.

Carefully, Sinbad considers the best spot to put a fire. There's no flat place big enough for what he wants, and he has to be cautious. If a lit fire collapses and goes sliding down the cliff, the whole island could potentially burn. Once more he wishes for Firouz—his technical expertise would be invaluable right now. But the scientist isn't here. Maeve is, and he'll ask her about it, but this seems like a job more suited to science than magic.

Thinking of Maeve makes Sinbad realize how hot the afternoon is getting. He warned her to rest in the worst heat of the day but she's stubborn as a pig when she thinks she's being coddled, so he'd better check. He descends the rocky cliffside slowly, blinking the painful sparkles from his eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the relative darkness as the forest swallows him once more. It's cooler here, out of the direct scorch of the sun, and he dunks his head in the forest pool, drinking his fill and wetting his hair, easing the ache in his eyes after staring so long at the glittering sea.

He follows the stream back to the lagoon, searching for his sorceress. He hasn't seen her all day and he's beginning to feel a little nervous. There's little enough here to harm her—no predators, no other people—but like all members of his crew she has a curious way of finding trouble in even the most benign locations. He wants to see with his own eyes that she's all right, preferably resting in the shade, though he doubts she's followed his orders on that point. It's fine. If she hasn't, he'll just make her. Curling up with her to rest for a while until the worst heat of the sun dissipates sounds perfect.

She's on the beach when he steps out of the forest—in the sun, exactly where he told her not to be. And she's working. He's not really surprised, but he is irritated. He didn't ask her to stay out of the sun because she's some delicate little female, but because her pale northern skin just isn't meant for the extremes of this climate. On the Nomad she can disappear below deck in the blinding heat of the afternoon. Most of the crew does, trading tiller duty so no one gets sunsick. Here on land she must learn to do the same despite the need for signal fires and shelter. They have no medical supplies and no Firouz, so she needs to take more care.

But no, she's seated below the high-tide line, in the full glare of the sun, working diligently at something. He squints but can't tell quite what she's doing.

Besides deliberately disobeying, of course.

He pulls his boots off, dumping them by the remains of last night's fire before going to her. The sand scorches his feet and irritates him further. She shouldn't be out on the beach right now, in the full glare of the sun. She knows better—she told him so that morning—which means she's defying him on purpose.

As he nears her, he finally sees what she's doing. She has a dead sea turtle on the sand in front of her and is using her knife to extract the animal from its shell.

He wrinkles his nose. The beast is big, bigger around than he could likely reach with both arms, and has been dead awhile, the flesh pale and waterlogged, beginning to putrefy. "Uh, you don't want to eat that."

She flashes him a disgusted look before returning to her grisly chore. "How dumb do you think I am? I'm not trying to eat it. I want the shell."

Oh. That makes a little more sense. Earlier he was wishing for a way to boil greens to make them safe to eat, and a large turtle shell fits the bill perfectly. It's also a valuable trade item, something they can add to their cargo and sell once Doubar finds them. "Where was it?"

"Floating just outside the lagoon." She points with her knife. "The tide brought it close enough that I was able to wade out and grab it."

Her delicate northern skin is red from the sun—too red, with an unhealthy feverish brightness that tells him she needs to sit quietly in the shade for a while, at the very least, if not immerse herself in the forest pool. Immersing herself would be good anyway—she's up to her elbows in fetid slime, with smears along her white skirt and bare legs as well. But he understands why she's out here—turtles are heavy, and this giant dead one is far too big for her to carry into the shade.

"Stop a moment, firebrand." He kneels beside her and catches her chin lightly with his fingers, lifting her face toward his, studying the unhealthy red glow of her skin. He touches the back of his hand to her forehead and cheek. She's overheated, and not nearly as sweaty as she should be in this sun, which means she hasn't been drinking enough. "You need water. I told you to keep out of the worst of the sun."

"That was before." She tugs her head free and returns to her task. "I'll move when I'm done here."

She's a stubborn thing and he doesn't want to waste time arguing with her right now, when she needs to be in the shade. "I'll make you a deal. I'll help you move this thing up the beach, past the tideline, so it can't wash away. But then you come back into the shade with me for a while. You can finish extracting your shell once the beach is safe again."

She scowls at him. "I'm fine."

"You're not."

"I am!"

"Oh?" He rises to his full height and folds his arms over his bare chest. "Stand up for me."

"Why?" she asks suspiciously.

"Because I don't think you can, and I want to prove a point. I didn't order you to stay out of the sun because I think you're incapable. I did it because it's dangerous." He takes several steps back. "Prove me wrong. Stand up and walk to me. If you can do it, I'll leave you be. You can burn to a crisp out here and I won't say a word."

She scowls. She doesn't like being provoked, but she can't resist the dare. Swearing under her breath, she stabs her knife into the sand and lifts herself to her feet.

She makes it all the way upright, which is truthfully more than he expected. But the excess heat makes her heart race, her pulse thrumming too fast and too shallow, and when she rises suddenly her blood pressure can't cope. She collapses.

He's at her side before she hits the ground, hand behind her head, cushioning the blow. She pants, breaths fast and light and far too shallow. He doubts she blacked out completely but she certainly greyed out for a moment and she lies quietly on the scorching sand, dazed, no longer arguing with him.

"You know I love saying I told you so." He strokes her too-hot cheek and kisses her forehead. "But from now on, how about you trust me? I've lived in this heat my whole life. I know what I'm talking about."

She curses lightly and rubs her eyes, pushing at him as she tries to fight her way to a seated position. He ignores her shoving and levers her up gently. "Come on. I think you need a long dip."

She doesn't protest as he helps her stand, this time much more cautiously. They take their time and she lets him steady her, and this time she remains upright. She shakes her head slowly, still looking a little dazed.

"I still want my shell."

"You can have it; it's a great find. But it's not worth killing yourself over." He slips her arm over his shoulder and helps her up the beach. Normally she would pull away, protest his treatment of her as coddling, but right now she doesn't. He can feel the heat of her through the thin linen of her clothing; she's far too hot, and needs to cool down quickly. "Here." He pushes lightly on her hip, guiding her to the freshwater stream as it pours from the forest, down the beach and into the sea. Here it's barely knee-deep and warmer than the forest pool, but he leads her into it anyway. "Sit here while I go get your shell."

She sinks to her knees, the swift current washing away the putrid slime from the sea beast. He watches the rise and fall of her panting chest, her breaths still too quick and shallow. But it took some time for her body to overheat, and it will take time for it to cool down as well. He kneels next to her, cupping up water and dribbling it over her blazing cheeks.

"Drink," he urges. "I'll be right back." He kisses her forehead once more before standing, returning to the decaying mess of turtle. It looks gross now, but she's correct in wanting it. If he had noticed such a prize floating on the tide, he'd have grabbed it, too. He grasps the edge of the shell and heaves, dragging the heavy thing up the beach, one hard yank at a time. It's far too unwieldy to lift, and he needs to be careful in the sun, too, though his body is much more conditioned to the Arabian heat than Maeve's.

He brings the turtle up the beach, almost to the edge of the forest, before leaving the heavy thing and returning to his sorceress.

She still looks dazed, sitting quietly in the swift, gentle current, and still far too red. She'll be badly sunburned regardless, but he wants the unnatural, feverish heat he can see burning under her skin to cool. Once that happens, and her rapid, shallow pulse returns to normal, he'll feel much more comfortable. People die of sunsickness, and he refuses to lose his sorceress after all they've so recently survived. She's his now, pigheaded, short-tempered and all, and he will not— _will not_ —allow the sun to take her from him.

She's docile when he fetches her, quiet and subdued, which tells him that she's either far more dazed than he thought, or she scared herself once she realized how seriously the sun affected her. Either way, he's grateful that she's no longer fighting him. They follow their track at the side of the stream into the forest, her balance not steady enough for wading to the deep pool where cold spring water spills from the rocks.

"How are you feeling?" He eases them into the water, feeling a shiver ripple up her body as he takes her deeper, up to her breasts, her shoulders, her chin. He holds her steady against him.

"Hot. Fuzzy." She braces herself with her arms on his and ducks under the water, holding her breath, letting the pool envelop her. He keeps his hands on her in case she passes out but also just to touch her, to feel the comforting solidity of her body. He's not angry, not really, but her dazed, glassy eyes make him anxious, and he needs to be sure she's all right. When she surfaces his hands skim up her sides, drawing the thin linen of her clothing away from her skin, tossing it to the mossy bank. "I don't want to fuck right now," she protests, brushing back her wet, heavy hair.

"Good, because I'm not going to fuck you." Not right now. She needs to cool down and rest, and sex won't help her do either. "But I do want to look at you." He caresses her cheek, observing how the unnatural deep red color continues down her chest and over her flat stomach. "Did you eat today?"

"No, and I don't want to. My belly hurts."

"That can happen when you get too much sun." He helps stroke her hair back, dark and straight now that it's wet. "I won't make you eat, but you need to drink."

She does, immersing herself to her eyes like a crocodile, keeping as much of herself submerged as possible without being told. When he's sure she's secure, feet stable on the pebbly bottom of the pool, he relaxes his tight grip and lets water flow between their bodies, not wanting his body heat to impede the process.

"You know, I ought to lecture you right now, while you're a captive audience."

She glares at him without speaking.

"But your body's punishing you, and I think that's probably far more effective than anything I could say." He submerges himself to his nose, mimicking her, and kisses her mouth softly below the waterline.

Slowly the unnatural fire in her cheeks begins to die, fading from red to coral, then a softer pink. The apples of her cheeks, tips of her ears, and the part in her hair are badly sunburned, but the intense inner fire of her overheated body cools as she submerges herself in cold spring water, dunking her head every now and then, drinking when he reminds her. Her mind is still a little dazed from too much sun and heat, her body tired, overtaxed from the effort of trying to keep cool.

Once he thinks it's safe, Sinbad gently pulls her to the mossy bank, where they rested the day before. She's as pliant sunsick as she was just-fucked, and he lets her wet body curl against his, her head finding the spot on his shoulder she seems to like.

"I circled the island, in case you're interested. There's no one here, and nothing but birds and lizards." For all he knows she'll try to tame one or the other, a new pet while her hawk's away.

She hides a yawn in his chest and pulls her tired body closer. Goosebumps prickle her arm and he feels safe enough to hold her, doubtful that her temperature will rise dangerously again. They're in the cool of the shade, and he made her stay in the cold water a long time. The immediate danger of sunsickness has passed. Now he has to keep her quiet, let her body rest, and make sure she keeps drinking. He touches the pulse in her throat gently. It has slowed, which is good. She stopped panting a while ago, her breaths deep and slow once more.

"Did you climb?" She motions toward the rocky outcropping with a tired wave.

"Aye. And watched the horizon for quite some time." He shakes his head a little. "I saw no ships." Doubar and the others are out there. He knows it. But they have a lot of islands to search.

"It was…a bad storm." Her voice is soft, hesitant. She's not usually so reticent, and he wonders if she's still dazed. "But I've seen nothing wash up on the beach."

His heart plummets past his gut when he realizes what she's trying to say without actually saying it. It _was_ a bad storm. A terrible storm. One of the worst he's ever seen. But Doubar knows the Nomad almost as well as he does, and his crew is strong. The ship couldn't have gone down. It just couldn't have.

No. Doubar's alive. He would feel the difference if his brother were dead, wouldn't he? He'd feel…some shift. Something.

"Would you know?" he finds himself asking, despite telling himself he's sure. "If Dermott were…"

"I'd know." She's firm. "He's too far away to contact, but I'd know if he were gone."

Sinbad gathers her tighter against his side, hugging her body close. All he can do is pray that she's correct.

"I knew better." She yawns again. "Than to be out on the beach, I mean. I've been sunsick before."

He suspected. The scorching heat of his world must have been a shock when she first came south, however long ago that was. He strokes her drying hair as she rests on his chest. Stories and rumors wouldn't—couldn't—have prepared her. His fingers trace lightly up her spine, making her shiver. Most of her unburnt skin has returned to its usual color, new milk kissed lightly with gold. He caresses her carefully, watching as his work-roughened hands smooth over her shoulder, her arm, the curve of her hip. Such a beauty. And sweet, once she's worked herself to exhaustion.

"I just got caught up in what I was doing. I wasn't deliberately defying you. I don't like when you assume that's all I ever do."

"Firebrand." He kisses her hair, feeling the heat of her sunburn, the red line of exposed scalp where her hair naturally parts. This is a mistake her body will remember for a while. But it's also a learning experience for both of them. He holds her in the heat of the afternoon, the forest air thick and close, humid so near the water. "You test my patience, and you know it."

She nods against his chest; she knows. How could she not? Most of their fights begin when she refuses to obey one order or another, or deliberately taunts him, testing his control.

"Don't ever stop."

She raises her head, chin on his chest, watching him with guarded eyes.

"I don't know what I'd do if I lost my firebrand."

She's not his, not really. She's still an apprentice, and so technically she belongs to Dim-Dim. But he'd be like a sailor without the stars, without the wind, if he lost her now, and he has faith his former master will understand when they find him. He didn't mean for it to happen. Never expected it to happen—not with the snippy little Celtic upstart Dim-Dim left in his care.

But it happened, regardless. She's part of him. Following her into the storm merely solidified a bond that's been a long time in the making.

"I never question you when it's important," she says cautiously, still unsure. "I mean, really important."

"I know you don't." When lives are on the line, she doesn't hesitate. Even Firouz and Rongar do, sometimes, when he issues an unorthodox order in a critical moment. But not Maeve. She puts her life in his hands readily, trusting him to make the correct decisions to keep them alive. "And that's why I listen when you do question me. Because you know when not to."

"Then why are you mad at me?" She looks genuinely perplexed. "I thought you were upset that I disobeyed an order."

"No." Not really. It irks him, certainly—he's the captain, and he needs to maintain at least some semblance of order and discipline. But that wasn't what pissed him off today. "I was upset because you were sick, and unwilling to see it."

She makes a face. "I saw it once I fell. How'd you know that would happen?"

"I've seen it before." Firouz would be able to explain why it happened. Sinbad just knew it would. "Even done it myself a time or two. The heat gets to all of us, but you're more susceptible. Not because you're a woman, but because you're from the north. Your body just wasn't made to take as much heat, and that's not something you can force it to overcome through sheer will."

"I know." She scowls grumpily, settling back on his chest with a small sigh. "But for the record, I hate it." She shifts against him and kisses his chest gently.

"Noted, firebrand." He holds her close, loving the warmth of her bare body, the lazy stillness of the afternoon. "But try to take more care? Please. I can't lose you."

She breathes softly, silent for a moment. He wonders what she's thinking. Her body is loose against his, soft and pliant; she can't be too upset.

"Aye, captain," she says finally.

He exhales a long breath. Good girl. Until Doubar finds them, they're all each other has. Even after that, he's keeping her. Their time here can't be undone, their relationship turned back into what it was before the storm. He wouldn't even if he could. His hand settles on the firm curve of her ass, squeezing, scooping her body to press against his. She laughs and nestles close, not slapping his hand away or cursing him for being so bold, so he keeps his hand where it is, palming that tempting flesh, holding her close.

No, he wouldn't go back. He won't. She's his for keeps.

* * *

Maeve falls asleep in his arms, which he expected and hoped would happen. Sinbad holds her close as the sun bakes the island, desperate for the reassurance of her body, the rise and fall of her back as she breathes, the calm of her warm, yielding self as she sleeps. He wishes he could nap, too, but he can't.

The possibility that the Nomad sank in that storm never occurred to him, not until she voiced it. Now he can't get it out of his head. Ships go down all the time. He's witnessed numerous sinkings, and been through a few as well. It happens. As a sailor, he understands a watery grave likely awaits him at some point, the only questions being where and when. It's one of the many dangers of his chosen life, and something he thought he came to peace with long ago.

But the thought of the Nomad sinking with Doubar and his friends aboard haunts him. He can accept the reality of his own seagoing death, but not his brother's. Doubar is his rock, his buoy. He's always been there for him—always. He can't just be gone. He can't be.

But no matter how firmly he tells himself this, Sinbad can't quiet the nagging fear in his gut. Doubar is a dependable first mate, but he's not a captain. He doesn't have Sinbad's commanding streak, or even Maeve's blustering confidence. Sinbad never doubted his skill before, but…what if?

What if, when he chose to dive into the sea after Maeve, he left his ship in the hands of someone not quite prepared for command? What if, through no fault of Doubar's, Sinbad's choice to go after Maeve doomed them all?

He holds her tighter as she sleeps, drawing her naked body further on top of him, needing the pressure, the human warmth of her. What if, in leaping into the storm, he inadvertently saved his own life? He never found Maeve in the water; she would have washed up on this island with or without him. If he had stayed aboard, assuming the Nomad weathered the storm, he'd be searching frantically for her now, as he assumes Doubar is for him. He wouldn't stop until he found her. But what if the Nomad didn't weather the storm, even with him aboard? He's a good captain but he's not infallible. The sea takes what it chooses, when it chooses. If it took the Nomad with him aboard, Maeve would be here alone. She might never know what happened to him, to them.

She shifts in her sleep, nuzzling her cheek into the sparse hair on his chest. He pulls her further onto him, happy when she grunts softly and tosses a leg over his hip, straddling him. He wants the warm weight of her, the reminder that they're here, alive, lungs full of air, not water. He tangles one hand in her soft curls, red and springy once more, the other flat at the small of her back, stroking down over that gorgeous ass, around her hip and back up, feeling the smooth muscle just under her silken skin, the sweep of her shoulder blade, the perfection of the hidden crease at the back of her neck, under the heavy fall of her hair. He buries his nose and mouth in those copper curls and breathes in; she smells like sun and salt and moss, clean and sweet. Not cloying or floral; she has no perfumes to mask herself in scent and doesn't use such things even in civilization. She doesn't need to. He loves her just the way she is.

But they can't be the only two survivors of his ship. They can't be. She said she would know if her beloved pet were dead, and he's positive he would know—or ought to—if Doubar was gone. He doesn't, and she doesn't, which means the Nomad is fine.

Doesn't it?

He holds her tighter, hands falling to her hips, cupping that gorgeous ass. He's the captain, and he wants to be sure. Needs to be sure. His job is to keep his crew safe, and how can he do that if he doesn't know where they are?

She shifts and half wakes, exhaling a warm breath against his skin. "Sinbad?"

He eases his grip on her slightly, trying to be sorry he woke her. Sleep-sweet, silky warm, she lifts her head and touches her mouth to his. He kisses her softly, hunger for her body waking in his blood. "I need you."

"I'm here." She settles herself more fully on his groin, the soft heat between her legs making him instantly hard. Her hands spread flat on his chest and she pushes herself up, tempting breasts so close to his face. He palms her ass and holds her tightly to him with one hand, cupping one soft breast with the other, thumb stroking the pink nipple to hardness.

She dips her head and kisses him, mouth gentle, still sweet with sleep. He strokes that gorgeous body, the taste of her soothing on his tongue, needing her, needing the reassurance that she's here, that after the storm and the sun, she's still okay. He may not know where the rest of his crew is—his brother, his best friends—but this one, this girl, is here with him. She's alive and breathing, warm and wanting, and he kisses her deeply, hands hard on her body, wanting, needing to be sure of her.

He rolls them over and she lets him, the soft moss cushioning her back as he lifts away from her just slightly, just far enough to untie his _sirwal_ and shuck the fabric off. His mouth finds a tender nipple and he sucks lightly, settling against her once more. Her parted thighs rise to cradle his hips, holding him close. Yes, he likes that, likes the feel of her slim, supple muscles strong against him.

"Good girl," he whispers, licking her hard nipple, letting the texture of his tongue glide against her. She's breathing quickly, as swift to passion as he, her hips rocking against his as he slips a hand between them to stroke her. Their time in the cold spring water did nothing to cool her here; she's hot, bare skin velvety and soft where he's used to the rougher touch of pubic hair. Whether she removes all but that small, sexy patch of red curls on her mound or this is just how she is, he doesn't know, and doesn't care. Either way, he loves it.

On the Nomad his crew live cheek by jowl, in such close quarters that privacy is nonexistent. He's almost surprised at how much of Maeve's body is new to him, considering this, but she values her privacy highly and doesn't share herself, her body or her secrets. That she's so willing to give herself to him now, here, shows how far this relationship has come, how much she's learned to trust him.

Not just trust, but care for, as well. He carefully sinks two fingers into her tight, welcoming heat, loving the pleased whimper in her mouth, the way her body shifts to accept him. He kisses the lacy pattern of her ribs, moving down her torso, licking the divot of her navel, before sliding his tongue through her folds, spreading her with his free hand, flexing his fingers out of her wet heat and back in. She's so silky warm, salt-sweet on his tongue as he licks her like he's wanted to do since first waking on this island with her beside him. She loves it, loves his mouth on her folds, the way he sucks sweetly at her clit before sliding the flat of his tongue against that hard little ruby, licking her slowly. He loves the taste of her, the sounds she makes, especially when she comes, whimpering, pleading, high and sweet. Her body trembles as aftershocks ripple through her; he holds her down firmly and continues through them, swallowing her liquid pleasure, the molten slickness that coats her bare velvet folds. There's something vulnerable about her bare cunt, unprotected by the pelt most women wear. He loves how that skin feels against his tongue, how her internal muscles tighten around his fingers when he takes her over the edge a second time. He can't know where his crew is, his brother, his ship. But Maeve is here, and he's damn well going to take care of her in every way he knows how.

She's the furthest thing from hurting right now, panting, the pink flush of pleasure painted over her pale skin. He withdraws his fingers from her and slips them in his mouth, desperate to keep the taste of her as he covers her body with his. Her eyes are dark with desire and she doesn't resist, spreading her legs further and tilting her hips as his thick cock presses into her. And fuck, yes, this is the sweetness he's been craving. He groans into her shoulder, her arms holding him close, her mouth soft on his ear, his jaw. She's perfect, damp with sweat, trembling, moving with him, her hips curving just right to take him deep, deep into that tight, wet heat.

"Mine now, firebrand," he groans into her throat, his mouth moving over her pulse point, fluttering and frantic once more, this time with passion, not illness. She's hale and healthy, probably tired, but that's easily fixed. Later, once he finishes tiring her out. He moves inside her, stroking deep, knowing he's not the first to fuck her, but vowing he'll be the last. She's his, and he's keeping her.

"What if you're mine?" She kisses him fiercely and grabs his ass as firmly as he's ever grabbed hers. Wild, feral thing. He shoves deep, his hips hard against her inner thighs. Of course he's hers. He has been for…a long time. Maybe longer than even he knows. And fuck, the raw possession in her voice is exactly what he needs, a balm for a hurt that won't really fade until he knows for sure the Nomad and its crew are safe.

They're alone on this island with literally nothing, but Maeve's flushed, slick body, her wanting voice, give him more than he ever dreamed he'd have. His arms are full of the only treasure he wants. He spreads her tight wetness with the thick length of his cock, stretching her, filling her. So deep. So good. Fucking her is somehow more intimate than it's ever been with anyone else. He can't think, can't do anything but move with her, kiss her, take her, over and over. He loves the feel of her tight heat squeezing his shaft, coaxing pleasure from him, so deep inside her, hot and hard and throbbing inside her. He might not have been the first to fuck her but he's the biggest, her body unused to his girth, his length splitting her, stretching her as he thrusts deep. But he's not hurting her, every line and movement of her body speaking pleasure, not pain. She's vocal and unashamed of what she wants; she'd make him stop if she didn't like it, he has no doubt of that.

She exhales a high little whimper against his mouth and comes around him, pleasure rolling through her, that gorgeous body rippling, quivering, her hips rising, rolling, fucking back against him as he pushes as deep as possible. He can't hold on through the intensity of her orgasm and comes, too, holding himself deep within her as pleasure explodes through his body. Yes, just like this. So close to pain, so blinding, so perfect. Tears prick his eyes, and he's not entirely sure why.

Soft now, he slides out of her. She's so wet for him, wet and pink and perfect. He watches her flat belly as she breathes, the damp shine of sweat on her flushed skin. So beautiful. So his. He spoons his body around hers, drawing her tight against his chest, holding her hard. There's so much he can't be sure about, so much he just can't know, but this—this is real. She's his, and he has no reservations about that. He's going to love her as hard as she can handle, and care for and protect her as much as she'll allow.

"You're going to have to stop doing that, you know." She turns in his arms and cuddles into his chest, sated and spent. They'll both sleep well tonight, shelter or no shelter.

"Doing what?" If she thinks he's going to stop fucking her, she's crazy. He can't keep his hands off her and has no intention of trying.

"Coming in me." She lifts her head and kisses his mouth softly, then settles back to the spot she likes on his shoulder.

"Why?" It's difficult for him to pick a favorite part of fucking her, but if forced to, that would probably be it.

"Because the last thing I need right now is to end up pregnant, you idiot." Her words are firm but her voice is soft, languid and just-fucked.

"There are worse things that could happen." He hadn't considered the possibility until she said something—he's a sailor, and never fucks the same woman more than once or twice, making pregnancy far less of a worry. But she's right that if he doesn't start pulling out, she'll be with child before long. He's a little shocked by how much that idea appeals to him. "You'd be adorable with a big belly."

" _No_." She can't elbow or punch him easily in this position, but she pinches one of his flat nipples—hard.

"Ow!" He pulls her hand away and smacks her tempting ass lightly. "Behave, woman. Besides, it's kind of not up to us, unless you want to stop fucking completely."

"If those are my only two choices…" She trails off dangerously.

He hugs her close and has to chuckle, despite her implied threat. "Why so reticent?" He's surprised by how much he likes the thought of her round with his child. Then she'd truly belong to him, in a way no one could deny.

"Any child of ours would be hell to raise."

This is undeniable—it would absolutely serve them both right if they ended up with his controlling nature and her stubborn fearlessness combined in their offspring.

"Besides, I've never been pregnant before, and I don't want to go through that for the first time alone."

This argument sobers him, and he holds her tighter in the sleepy warmth of the afternoon. She's right. Getting her pregnant here would be unconscionably irresponsible. She's young, and when she does conceive she'll want the knowledge and reassurance of other women, older women, to help her along. Sinbad can't provide that here. On the Nomad they sail from port to port, and even small villages have a midwife or an herbwoman to consult. Here she's alone. Even in civilization women die having babies all too often. No. It's a risk he's unwilling to take. Not with Maeve.

"I understand." He kisses her forehead, the wild tangle of her copper curls. "It's you and me now, firebrand. You know that."

"Yeah. I do." She yawns into his chest. "Now will you quit talking? It's naptime."

Whatever she wants. When the afternoon cools he'll go fishing again and make her eat. They'll survive one more night under her cloak. Tomorrow he'll figure out how to light a signal fire up on the rocks and they'll construct a shelter with the materials she's collected. But for now, he's content to hold her as she sleeps.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat shorter chapter than usual, but I thought since many people are stuck at home shorter, more frequent posts might be welcome.

Maeve is subdued when she wakes, and quieter than usual. Sinbad lets her be. The thought of their friends and family potentially being gone...the enormity of the question still lies heavy on him, and he has no doubt on her as well. She's not the captain and doesn't have the responsibility toward the rest of the crew that he does, but she cares for them, he knows she does. They're a family, and not knowing how Doubar, Rongar, and Firouz fare isn't easy to bear.

He slips into the forest pool, comforted by the feel of cool water, watching Maeve's movements without speaking. The crew of the Nomad is their family—the only family he has besides Dim-Dim. He doesn't know whether she has anyone else, blood kin or otherwise. She's always seemed so solitary, alone in this world unless her pet hawk counts. In truth, though, he has no idea. She could have a sprawling family back in Eire for all he knows, brothers and sisters, uncles and cousins. She's never mentioned anything about her past or her people, one way or another.

She kneels at the side of the pool, scraping at the wet pebbles, exposing a layer of clay-rich mud underneath. He's not really surprised when she applies some of the cold mud to the worst of her burns, cooling the angry red of her skin. As she slept the fiery color on her shoulders deepened and tiny water blisters appeared, like white freckles on the angry red. She won't be comfortable for a few days. He hopes it's enough of a lesson that she won't neglect herself again.

After applying the cooling mud, she pulls her white linen dress back on and straightens. Sinbad watches as she eyes the rocky outcropping down which the little waterfall spills. Oh, no. He knows that look and what it means.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I want to see out."

He propels himself cleanly through the water with two firm strokes. "We can go to the beach. I don't want you climbing today, especially since you haven't eaten. Tomorrow you can go with me and we'll figure out how to build a fire up there." Sunsickness, plus not enough water or food, means that she's not thinking particularly clearly and her body isn't quite as strong as usual. He doesn't want her climbing those wet, slippery rocks today.

She frowns. She's used to taking orders from him, but that doesn't mean she likes it. "I'm fine now."

"So you're fine." He sets his feet on the pebbly bottom and stands. Water streams from him as he steps into the shallows. Her eyes lock on his body, watching the trails of water. He can feel her gaze, hot and intense, firing delicious prickles along his skin. Fuck, he wants her. But she needs food, and so does he, and the captain in him knows that's more important right now. It overrides the man in him, which really, really doesn't care. "If you're fine, we can go back to the beach and you can finish cleaning that shell you wanted so badly. I'll fish, and we'll eat." He closes the distance between them and kisses her mouth lightly.

Her frown doesn't fade despite his kiss. "I'm not a child. Don't treat me like one."

"Believe me, I know you're no child." Especially with that body of hers so close to his own, wearing only the thinnest white linen. She's all woman, and all his. "And I have no wish to be your father. I am, however, your captain. We're going to the beach. Come on."

He turns as if he fully expects her to follow him, which isn't the case, but he can hope. She'll either capitulate or raise a fuss; as long as she doesn't ignore him completely and start climbing, he doesn't care which she chooses. She has to be hungry by now, and he hopes that means she'll come without a fight.

After a moment he hears the soft sound of bare footsteps. She pushes her sharp shoulder firmly into his arm, shoving him a few steps into the stream without speaking. She doesn't argue with him, which means she's hungrier or more tired than she'll admit. Probably both. He chuckles and continues on, tucking an arm around her waist. "There's my firebrand." He'll gladly take a few light knocks from her if saving face keeps her happy.

The afternoon has advanced toward evening, the heat softer, a swift breeze picking up. He leaves her at the turtle carcass and heads to the lagoon to fish. This place is lovely and peaceful, but his mind and heart refuse to calm. He can't banish the thought that their friends might truly be dead. Also, if the Nomad is no longer out there, that means no one knows they're stranded and no one is looking for them. They'll have to hope a ship passes close enough to see their signal fires and rescue them. Nothing in life is sure, and he realizes that, but their situation seems more precarious now than ever. They can survive here—even thrive. There's plenty of food, and both he and Maeve know how to husband their stores, conserving and replanting as necessary, so they don't deplete their stocks. Barring terrible illness or injury, there's nothing here to harm them. They could potentially live long lives on this tiny island.

Long, but not fulfilling. He stands in the shallows of the lagoon, waiting for a fish to come close enough to catch. He made himself a sailor but he's a wanderer by nature. Whether on land or shore, he has trouble staying still. Maeve is the same; he recognized the gypsy instinct in her the day they met, like calling to like. Neither of them can truly be happy confined like this. Not for long. It's fine for a holiday, a break from their usual lives, but the novelty won't last. He needs to chase the wind, and so does she.

That's why he needs so badly to believe Doubar and the Nomad are still out there, still searching for them. Doubar isn't a born leader but he's been at sea almost as long as Sinbad, and he knows the water better than most sailors. He made it through the storm, Sinbad decides. He has to keep believing they made it. For his own sanity, he has to believe it.

Maeve hauls the decaying turtle carcass down to the water, outside the protective reef surrounding the lagoon, where the tide will reclaim it. Sinbad watches as she brings the shell to the shoreline to scour clean with sand and salt water. She's a strong, capable, canny girl, his sorceress. Quick to anger and not always good at thinking before she acts, but he doesn't love her any less for it. He wonders what Doubar will say when next they meet, when he learns that Sinbad has claimed the barbarian girl for his own. He'll be furious that Sinbad jumped into the storm after her—Maeve isn't wrong about that. He'll probably also delight in saying I told you so, as he's been teasing Sinbad about his attraction to the Celt since they met.

Maeve leaves her turtle shell in the middle of the beach, upturned like a bowl, well above the high tide line, where tomorrow's harsh sun will bake and bleach it. She may not know this part of the world as intimately as Sinbad does, but she's fully comfortable living outdoors, away from the protections of civilization, and it shows. Once again he has to wonder how she grew up, where she came from. A small island far to the northwest, yes, but that tells him nothing. She's at home like this, on her own, with nothing but a blade and her own resourcefulness. She knows how to take care of herself—how to find and prepare food and tools, taking what her environment offers and making use of it. From this, Sinbad senses that she's spent a fair amount of time without a real, settled home. He wonders why. Maybe it was circumstance, but maybe it was the itinerant spirit he senses in her.

When Sinbad leaves the lagoon with his catch gutted and cleaned, he finds her once more at the side of a cheerful little fire, a handful of taro roots baking in the coals. She also has two stalks of fresh yellow dates next to her and is eating one, looking perfectly pleased with herself, her shins bleeding and scratched to hell.

"I take it the fruit was worth the scratches?" He sets the fish on rocks to cook and settles next to her.

"Yep."

He pulls her long, slender legs into his lap, inspecting her wounds. Date palms are nasty and her skin is delicate. She's covered in bloody scrapes, but none of them look deep enough to truly worry about.

"Will you at least wash in the sea before you sleep?" Salt water will sting like a motherfucker but it's good for healing.

"Will you quit worrying? I'm fine. Here." She hands him a date.

He prefers them sun-dried, wrinkly and sticky-soft, but he bites into the firm fruit just the same. He's never been terribly picky about food. Sailors worry more about whether their meals are safe, not appetizing.

"I tried starting on some shelter, but I needed at least one more hand than I had." She drops the pit into the fire and licks her fingers.

"Planting uprights can be difficult," he agrees. "The horizon looks clear enough; we'll survive one more night." Shelter wouldn't be a concern at all, since she has that wonderful woolen cloak, but the weather won't stay clear forever. When rains come to this region they come hard and heavy—not cold, but drenching. He doesn't want to face that without cover if he doesn't have to. Maeve seems to care very little about getting rained on, and considering her homeland he's not surprised, but he's not used to being constantly wet and he doesn't like it.

"What do you miss about home?" he asks, tossing the pit of his date into the fire.

"The same things you do, I'm sure." She tucks herself closer against his side as sunset bleeds across the sky. "Doubar and the others. The rocking of the ship. Having someone other than you to talk to." She pokes his hard abdomen.

"Hush, woman. I'm great to talk to." He grins.

"You're okay. Rongar's better. He knows how to listen."

"You just say that because he can't talk back."

"How dare you?" She pokes him again. "He talks back all the time. Just not out loud."

Sinbad captures the hand that keeps poking him. The mud she slathered on herself earlier has dried and flaked away; he can see her poor blistered skin, starkly red against the bright white of her clothing. He likes that she's dispensed with the heavier overskirt. When Doubar finds them again he knows she'll return to her regular clothing, so for now he relishes the opportunity to see her so bare. The thin white linen is finer than he originally thought, soft to the touch and nearly sheer in the right light. He far prefers when she's wearing nothing, but this is a vast improvement over the layers of cloth and leather she usually wears.

"I didn't actually mean the Nomad." He strokes her palm, the tender, pale inside of her wrist. "Though I'm glad that's what you thought. I meant your home up north." He kisses the blue lines of her veins, starkly visible against that milky skin. The human warmth of her calls to him, as if he's a moth circling the living flame of her. He doesn't like to admit his weaknesses, but he's beyond relieved to have someone here with him. He's not used to being alone and he'd be going out of his mind were he shipwrecked by himself.

"Oh." Her warm, open expression disappears, as if she's slammed a door. She doesn't physically move from his arms, but something about her definitely backs away. "I don't have a home back there. I never did."

Now she moves, shifting the sweet warmth of her body away from him, turning to the fire. She flips the cooking fish and reaches into the ashes to turn the tubers with her bare hands. Even after living with her for so long, it still unnerves Sinbad to watch her do that. He also doesn't like her pulling away.

"Come back here." He draws her back against his bare chest.

"I'm hungry," she protests.

"Here." He hands her another yellow date. She's probably starving, as is he, but that's not why she pulled away and they both know it. "I'm sorry. I won't pry."

Her lovely face draws up in a grumpy pout. "You didn't." The wind whips a thick lock of fiery hair into her face; she brushes it back with an impatient hand. "I'm just…" One shoulder lifts in a halfhearted shrug.

He gets it. She's hungry and tired and cranky, and she doesn't like direct questions even at the best of times. "I know." He strokes her tangled hair, ruby-dark in the bloody sunset light. "It's okay." He thought it was an innocent question, but now he knows better. She likes him, trusts him, but that doesn't mean she wants to reopen a chapter of her life she's clearly put behind her.

"I miss it, I guess." She bites into her fruit. Her fire-dark eyes avoid his. "Little things. Snow. How the trees smell in the rain. I miss the Nomad more."

The Nomad is just a simple little ship. It's not large or fancy, nothing spectacular. It means everything to Sinbad, but then, he's it's captain. "Really?"

"Of course. I've been with you longer than I've stayed anywhere else." She smiles, but there's a strange, wistful sort of pain to the gesture, and she still refuses to meet his eyes.

So. He tucks her tight against his side, where she fits perfectly. He recognized the wandering spirit in her from the start, but he didn't realize she'd never really had a home before. It surprises him a little. Even gypsies have wagons or barges, homes they take with them as they roam. It doesn't sound like she had even that much.

Well, she does now, and a family to go with it. Just as soon as they find them.

"Will you tell me why you left?" Not having a home in her homeland doesn't explain why she left it, why she's so far from everything she grew up knowing. She's a literal world away from her people. Nobody does that without a reason, especially not a young woman alone.

"Will you make me?" Her wary tone warns him to be careful.

Sinbad eyes her with caution. She'll tell him if he orders her, but she doesn't want to. That's more than clear. And, though he's beyond curious, he just can't bring himself to force her.

"No." He kisses her sunburned forehead, her temple. "That's beyond my rights as your captain." Maybe not as her lover, but he's not going to push it. Not now. It's been a long day—a long few days—and she has every right to keep her secrets if she chooses.

Her body relaxes against his, tension bleeding from her. She offers her mouth, and as he kisses her, he knows he made the right choice. He doesn't want a resentful sorceress for a castaway companion if he can help it.

She touches his cheek, fingers gentle and warm, as he kisses her. The angry, spiteful foreigner he first met on the Isle of Dreams is long gone, and he licks her lush lower lip, unable to tell her with words just how glad he is of that. He'll do everything he can to make her happy. Getting to this point took over a year of struggle, and he refuses to ruin everything now with a careless question.

He presses her back against the sand, loving how she yields sweetly, her kiss hot and hungry. She wants him just as badly as he wants her, and he revels in that knowledge. Whatever happened to her before, it doesn't matter. All that matters is the touch of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the need in her soft little panting breaths.

She presses against him, hot-sweet, tugging at his _sirwal_ as he lifts her skirt. She's bare in an instant, cooling sand cradling her sleek body as his hands travel over it. He cups her firm breasts even as she uses her powerful abdominal muscles to lift herself to him, rising, cupping the back of his neck with a hot palm, her kiss burning. He feathers the lightest kisses over her burned, blistered shoulders as the wet heat between her legs glides against him. He presses into her as his mouth returns to hers, swallowing her pleased gasp, breathing her panting breaths. He loves her strength as much as her feminine softness, loves how well matched they are in this—she bucks her hips, loving him just as hard as he loves her. He adores it—how she takes what she wants, showing him what pleases her, how to kiss and where to stroke. He's good at pleasing women, but all women are different, and he's only too happy to have the instruction. She likes when he palms and squeezes that gorgeous ass roughly, which is good, because he's addicted to it and doubts he could stop. She has the most incredible body, long and lean and strong, and he loves how that pale northern skin glows in the ruby sunset light. In fact, he's pretty sure this is how they should spend every sunset—both here on this island and later, when they return to civilization.

Their food is overcooked by the time they surface, but Sinbad doesn't care and Maeve isn't complaining, either. She doesn't bother dressing, instead sitting on the crumpled white linen and tucking herself against his side.

"What about you?" she asks, pulling roasted taro roots from the ashes. "Why do you sail?"

"You already know why." He peels the skin of his fish back, exposing the steaming flesh. He doesn't have her affinity for fire, but his hands are so work-hardened that the heat doesn't bother him. He doesn't like talking about Leah any more than she likes talking about Eire. Besides, Doubar already told her this story, he knows he did.

The brilliant island sunset is nearly gone. Her light brown eyes gleam warm gold as the last of the setting sun reflects in them. "I know why you became a sailor. But you proved your mastery over the sea long ago. That isn't why you keep sailing."

She's right. She's right, but it isn't something he's ever really thought about. He takes a tuber and bites, considering. She washed them in seawater this time, and the salt adds welcome flavor. "I guess I'm just not much good at keeping still."

Sinbad gathers her sweet, warm body closer. The night closes in quickly, cooling the beach, but that's really just an excuse to keep her close. She tucks herself willingly against his side, most of her attention on her food. Sinbad doesn't consider himself a hedonist—that's Doubar's thing, not his—but he definitely appreciates these small creature comforts. Warm girl. Hot food. He smiles when Maeve kisses his bare shoulder.

She tosses fish skin and bones into the firepit. "I've noticed that." Finished eating, she leans more fully against him and nips his ear gently. She seems to be well recovered from her earlier sunsickness, save for the lingering sunburn that will be with her for a few days. Sinbad has never sunburned so badly that he blistered, but then, he doesn't have her delicate northern skin. "You have a roving spirit," she says, resting a hot cheek against his shoulder.

He slips his arms around her and inhales deeply. She smells like herself, like rain and green growing things, and also like the sun and salt they're drenched in on this island. The smoke from the driftwood fire blows away from them, wind gusting from the sea, dying down as the night enshrouds them. "I tried other things, believe it or not. My father was a merchant. I tried that."

She strokes his stubbled cheek gently, running light fingertips over his scratchy chin, the sharp line of his jaw. He loves her gentle caresses, how willing she is to put her hands on him. "That doesn't sound like you," she says.

"Nor was it." He opens his mouth as one delicate fingertip slowly skims his lips. His tongue licks the pad of her finger. She tastes like the sea. Those gorgeous dark eyes reflect the last red-purple gleam of the setting sun, like embers buried deep within. She's fire at her core and in this moment she looks it. "It made me wealthy, but not happy."

"But the sea does. Make you happy, I mean." It's not a question. She understands.

His fingers slip under her chin, lifting her mouth to his. She's perfectly warm, and perfectly his. He strokes her cheek, shifts his fingers to her thick red curls, combing through them gently. Having a woman on board his ship was not a welcome prospect, but now he can't imagine life without her. He has to have faith that, when they find him, Dim-Dim won't take her away. They can both stay on the Nomad, as they did in the beginning, master and student. The Isle of Dreams disappeared, after all, and Sinbad doesn't know if Dim-Dim can bring it back. He could return to the palace in Baghdad or settle with Cairpra in Basra, yes, but Sinbad desperately hopes he won't. Maeve needs her master, but Sinbad needs her.

"Does the sea make you happy?" He kisses her once more. Gods, he loves those lips. They're exactly as sweet as he always knew they'd be. He's never before asked whether she's happy on board his ship, but then, she was never meant to be permanent. She fell into this arrangement by chance, just as she fell into the storm that brought them here.

"You make me happy. And you're a package deal. I'd never want to change that." Her mouth touches his sweetly.

Yes, he and sailing are a package deal. He has no intention of ever doing anything else, and he's glad she understands that. But that isn't exactly what he asked. Or, at least, it's not what he meant. "But are you happy? I mean, really happy?"

She smiles. Such a simple gesture, and yet it holds...everything. Far more than he could ever interpret. "I wasn't made to sit still. You know that by now."

Yes, he's aware. She's no delicate flower, and though she likes being treated like a lady from time to time, it's just a game to her. She wouldn't know what to do with the life of a princess if she had it.

"You don't expect me to be something that I'm not. I don't think you really ever have."

He chuckles. "How could I? You knocked me on my ass when we met. Expectations went out the window."

He swears her smile shines brighter than the campfire. "That's what makes me happy."

"Knocking me down? Because you can do that any time."

She pushes at his shoulders and he yields willingly, letting her bear him to the sand beside the fire. Her lovely, long legs straddle him and she presses her chest to his, kissing his stubbled chin, then his mouth. "No, you idiot," she says, ignoring the fact that she just has. "That you let me be me. You've never tried to change who I am." She shakes her head slightly. Sinbad can see the flickering firelight reflected in those sweet dark eyes. "No one else has ever just...let me be."

He frowns. That's not right. She's perfect the way she is, hot temper and all. He combs her hair back gently and cups her face in his hands. "Firebrand. You are what you are. Other people are made of more malleable stuff, but fire just doesn't work that way." Fire can be many things, but malleable isn't one of them. She could try to be something she's not, but he has no doubt the attempt would break her.

Her mouth touches his, her kiss melting-sweet. Fire can destroy, but it can also nurture. It provides warmth in the cold, light in the darkness, which, aptly enough, is exactly what she's done for him. He wraps her tightly in his arms, biting that lush lower lip before kissing her hard. "Don't burn me, firebrand."

"So long as you don't drown me."

Never. He craves her warmth, her light, far too much to ever dim them. He suspects people in her past have tried, but he won't be one of them. He loves her too much—needs her too much. Right now, they're all each other has.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sea sparkles" are a real thing. When I lived on the beach in Oregon we called it noctiluka. Here's a short video of it from Australia, I think: www . youtube . com / watch? v=eTDxjOjzm9w&t=64s (take out the extra spaces, yadayada)

Sinbad wakes during the night, the first time he's done so on this island. He stretches slowly, sleepy mind listening to the comforting sound of the crashing waves, the rustle of wind high in the trees. Nothing feels off, no warnings hit his senses, and after a handful of moments he resettles, preparing to nod off once more.

But, as he reaches for the warm body that's supposed to be next to him, his open palm encounters only cold sand.

Immediately he jerks upright, alarm gripping his gut. She's supposed to be with him. There's no reason for her to be anywhere else in the middle of the night. He struggles to his feet, immediately wide awake, tossing the warmth of her cloak aside.

The island shimmers under blue moonlight, a ghost of wind chill against his bare chest. Maeve doused the fire before they slept, but he can see well enough with the moon's blue glow. The beach looks deserted, no movement save the soft sway of undergrowth when a stray breeze hits. He sucks in a deep breath and releases it, forcing the fear from his chest. This is a small island, and there's nothing on it that can harm her—no predators, and no people. She's okay, she's just not with him.

But why not? Where would she go? She was tired, languid during a last lazy fuck, almost asleep before she put out the fire. She should be asleep still, tucked against his side or curled on his chest, where she belongs. Sinbad digs his fingers into his eyes, annoyance bubbling within him. Not at her, but at himself. She's sweeter than honey when she wants to be, but she's a tigress, not a kitten. He should really know better by now.

Still, it's the middle of the night, and he can't quiet his worry. He stumbles on sleep-numb legs toward the freshwater stream. Maybe she woke thirsty, after a day of too much sun and heat? It wouldn't surprise him. But the stream is deserted when he reaches it, no female silhouette crouching at the shore or wading in the shallows. He listens, but hears nothing. No footsteps. No rustling in the underbrush.

If she's not asleep with him and not drinking at the stream, where could she be? At a loss for other ideas, he turns and follows the stream into the jungle, toward the forest pool. He can't think of any reason why she would be there, but he can't think of a reason why she would be anywhere else, either. He walks swiftly, just at the stream's edge, bare feet sliding in the cold spring water.

Earlier in the day, Maeve mentioned wanting to see out. But she wouldn't try to climb the rocks in the middle of the night, would she? She's fierce and fearless, but not foolhardy. She knows how dangerous that would be. Doesn't she? She climbed a date palm for the prize of sweet fruit despite her bare legs and feet, but the danger of the tree wasn't so stark. She'll risk bloody shins, but not a cracked skull. She knows better.

She's not at the forest pool. He knew she wouldn't be, but he had to check. He's tempted to try the rocks himself, just to make sure she's not up there, but it's just as dangerous for him to go climbing in the dark as it would be for her. He won't risk his neck like that unless he has to. He returns to the beach, heart beating fast, hammering at his ribs. He'll wait until daylight before panicking, he tells himself, though he's nearly there already. If she's not back by dawn, then he'll climb.

When he reaches the beach, motion catches his eye, a shimmer of pale blue on the water. At first he assumes it's moonlight reflecting off the waves, but then, through the stillness, he hears the high, clear sound of female laughter.

Maeve.

Relief floods him, though it does nothing to dampen the adrenaline pumping through his system. His steps quicken and he jogs toward the lagoon.

She's there. Thank the gods, she's there. Unclothed, that fair northern skin glows blue in the moonlight, blending with the silver shimmers on the waves. She swirls her slim calf in the shallow seawater, and a cascade of pale blue fairy lights fires through the little wave. When she steps a burst of glowing light follows her feet.

He approaches her from the front, not wanting to startle her. When she sees him her smile lights her face like the fairy lights at her feet. "Sinbad! Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"No." She scared him, but she didn't wake him. "What are you doing?"

"Look!" She kicks a wave of water, sending another cascade of glowing blue shooting through the lagoon.

"Sea sparkles. You've never seen them before?"

She shakes her head. Her dark eyes are wide with delight. "What makes them?"

He shrugs. He honestly has no idea. "Firouz might know." His panic has started to recede, but he still feels jittery and unsettled. He reaches for her, needing the reassurance of her warm body. She comes willingly, but instead of just wrapping his arms around her, he grabs that tempting bare ass and lifts.

She squeals, wet arms sliding along his shoulders, and wraps her legs firmly around his hips. "Hello." She's startled, but there's no tension in her soft, sleek body—she's not mad at him. "You're getting handsy."

He's getting possessive, actually, which won't go over well once they're back in civilization, but right now she's not complaining so he doesn't care. The linen of his _sirwal_ separates him from the melting heat between her legs; he thrusts softly against it. He's hard and aching, relief at finding her fueling his desire. She's here. She's fine. He still has no idea what woke her, but she's unhurt and that's all that really matters. He finds her mouth in the deep blue moonlight, kissing her hard. She tastes like the sea.

"What were you doing?" He wants to order her not to leave him like that again, with no warning, but it's not a reasonable demand and he gets that. It doesn't stop him from wanting to.

"Couldn't sleep. These fucking blisters itch too much. I just wanted to cool off."

Poor girl. He kisses her bare, hot shoulder. Under the moonlight he can't see the angry burn he knows is there, livid and red, or the sprinkling of water blisters. "Tomorrow night we'll put more mud on them. Then maybe you'll sleep better." For now, he drops his _sirwal_ and wades further out into the lagoon, holding her close. The water laps at them, gentle inside the protective reef. The sea is his home and he's comforted by the feel of cool water surrounding him, the firm press of Maeve's strong thighs curled around his hips, holding her close, holding her open, exactly as he wants her. She winds that glorious body along his, fingers combing through his hair, soft mouth kissing his ear, the hinge of his jaw.

"You had me worried, firebrand. I woke and couldn't find you."

She tilts her pelvis, rubbing the sweet heat between her legs against his firming length. "That's your own fault, not mine. There's nothing dangerous here."

He squeezes that firm ass hard and she rubs against him again, so wet, so sleek. She's taunting him now. "You're good at finding danger, even when there is none." He lets go with one hand and smacks that tempting ass—harder than teasing, not as hard as he'd like. She sucks in a quick, voiced breath. His hand returns, cupping her buttock, holding her tight against him. She's done nothing wrong and he knows that—he has absolutely no reason to scold her. She wasn't even far away, he just couldn't see her in the dark. That sweet fair skin blends with the silver-gilded waves, turning his firebrand to a sea nymph by moonlight.

The surge of adrenaline in his body remains, however, nervous energy left over from his fear for her, and he absolutely plans to take it out on that perfect body.

She laughs, delighted as they wade deeper, the sea sparkles firing bright blue around their bodies. It's something Sinbad has seen before but he loves how enchanted she is by the sparkling lights awash in the shallows. She watches as he takes them deeper, up to his hips, her slim, strong thighs tight around him. She shoves her slick, wet heat against him again with that teasing, rolling little motion. He spanks her once more, her sweet ass just above the waterline, leaving sparkles in the shape of his hand on her skin.

" _Oh_." The hard muscles in her thighs clamp around him, her fingers curling on his shoulders. "More."

Absolutely. He kisses her sweet mouth, tasting the nighttime sea, tasting her. His palm cracks against her wet ass again. Heat bleeds along his cock, trapped between them. She wasn't kidding when she said she liked that; she's practically dripping. Her kiss is hot as fire as she sucks on his lip, her mouth opening to him, letting his tongue touch hers. He kisses her hard, kneading her ass, encouraging her to rock against him.

"You're insatiable." She licks his upper lip.

When it comes to her he absolutely is, and he refuses to apologize for it. "You love it."

"I do." She rubs against him again. "You just love my ass."

He spanks her again, harder, the sound of his palm on her skin sharp in the soft night. Her body tenses deliciously against his, then melts as he rubs and kneads, soothing away any lingering sting. "I adore this ass," he says, not that she needs his admission. His actions are perfectly clear. "But it's not the only thing I love about you."

"I know." She grins and shifts, her hand slipping between them to find the base of his cock, guiding him to her entrance.

Fuck, yes. He jerks his hips forward, pushing into her as she sinks down on him with a melting little moan. Yes, he loves this, too. How wet she is for him, the silken tightness as he presses in, taking her, owning her. They're very different people in so many ways but in passion they're well-matched. He always wants her, and he can tell by the way her eyes watch him, following him with that hungry gaze, that she feels the same. Free from the tight confines of the Nomad, away from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of his crew, she's comfortable enough to act on impulse and right now those impulses are all about him.

He rubs her wet ass and spanks it again, and fuck, that's amazing. Her body clenches around him, squeezing his length, a little gasp of pleasure leaving her mouth.

"You like my hands." He kneads her gently, soothing away any sting.

"I love your hands." Hers curl on his shoulders as she lifts her hips away from his, then returns, taking him back inside her body, slow and deep. "And your mouth." She kisses him.

He loves the slide of her tongue against his, the way her hand curls in his hair, her pelvis rocking, strong and warm, against his. She trusts him to keep them upright as he takes them deeper into the lagoon, the cool seawater lapping at the underside of her breasts. "And this?" He thrusts deep.

"Yes," she pants. "Don't stop."

He's not sure he could if he wanted to. His mouth takes hers once more and his arms remain strong around her, helping her move. She lifts herself off of him and back down, taking him deep, rolling her pelvis, letting his hands support and guide her. She's all fire and all his. He thrusts, pressing deep, the water buoying them, bearing them up. She tastes like salt and sex, and he loves it—loves her. Not just that body, but everything else, too—all she is.

When she comes around him he can't hold off, but he retains enough control to pull her wet body off his length, so he spills harmlessly in the sea. And oh, he doesn't like that. It's not nearly as satisfying, having to keep control, having to pull his cock free of her squeezing heat. She doesn't like it either, an unhappy protest leaving her mouth as he forcefully moves her to pull out. But they both know the consequences if he continues to spill in her. He absolutely wants her big with his child, but not here. Not alone. That's too dangerous, and he refuses to risk her so carelessly.

So, despite the fact that neither of them likes it, he's going to have to get used to pulling out. He cradles her close, feet still on the sand but mostly floating, holding her warm, soft body.

"I love you, firebrand."

She nuzzles him gently and licks his cheek. "I know. I've known for a while."

Yeah, he has, too. But it took almost losing her to that storm to admit it.

"Do your burns still itch?"

"Yeah." She sounds resigned. "I'll live."

He dips them down into the water, bathing her shoulders once more before bearing her up to the shore. She remains wrapped around him, cuddled close. He's happy to carry her, to hold her like this, sweet and soft after sex. They settle at their campsite again and she relights the fire with a careless flick of her fingers. The beach is cold now that they're wet—he wraps them both in her cloak to forestall her search for clothing.

"Sinbad? Will Doubar be mad at me?" She presses close, shivering lightly. "For falling overboard?"

"No." He shifts them closer to the renewed fire and settles to his side, spooning his body around hers, keeping her between him and the flames, where it's warmer. "I gave you an order. You were following it when a wave swept you away. That wasn't your fault, and not even a seasoned sailor could have prevented it."

"Is that why you jumped after me? Because it was your order?"

"No." He strokes the silk-soft skin over her belly, traces the underside of her breasts. "I came after you because I can't be without you." If he had given himself time to think, he probably still would have jumped into the storm—because he ordered her, because it was his fault she fell. Because she belongs to Dim-Dim and he couldn't bear telling his old master that he'd killed her. Yes, even because she's a woman. For a hundred reasons he might rationally have chosen to jump. But he didn't. He leapt into the storm without a thought, because he can't be without her. He made no conscious decision, because there was none to be made. He needs her. When and how that happened, he doesn't know. Neither does he care. She's part of him now.

"I'm not happy that we're stuck here." Her voice is soft. She turns her head slightly, just enough so he can see the sweep of her eyelashes as she blinks, golden-red with firelight. "But I'm glad not to be stuck alone."

He kisses her burned shoulder. Sweet thing. "You've been alone a lot, haven't you?"

She shrugs. "Not really. I've always had Dermott. It's strange not to at least feel him near."

A bird is not the same as having other people, friends and family. But it's late, Sinbad's tired, and he can feel Maeve's body hovering near sleep as he holds her. The puzzle of her bond with that bird can wait. "You'll have him back soon. I promise." It's not the wisest promise he's ever made—a storm like that could easily have killed the little hawk, even if the Nomad survived. He holds Maeve tightly, hoping the words weren't a mistake. "Sleep now. We have work to do tomorrow."

He's pretty sure she's asleep before he stops talking.

* * *

The next day dawns clear and bright. They're at the forest pool soon after waking. Sinbad observes Maeve's movements with care, but she appears fully recovered from yesterday. Her sunburns and the scratches on her legs from climbing the palm tree stand out stark against her creamy skin, but she doesn't seem to care. Still he watches as she catches hold of the slippery rock face, pulling herself up. He follows closely. Realistically if she slips there's not much he could do, but he's determined to be between her and a hard fall anyway.

Not that she needs him. She climbs easily, with a quick grace he envies. She doesn't have his powerful upper body, but her smaller, more agile hands and feet find purchase where he can't, and her bare feet are an asset rather than a hindrance as she scales the damp cliff. He's...a little grumpy, to be honest. He's never asked her to climb up in the ship's rigging, doubtful that she could do so without a man's large biceps, but as she pulls herself nimbly up the rocks he sees how wrong he was. Sinbad doesn't like being wrong, but he tries not to dwell on it. He's learned a lot about his sorceress while marooned on this island, and this is just one more thing to add to the list.

There's barely enough room at the top of the rocky ridge for both of them to stand. Sinbad sets a hand lightly at her hip, the other shading his eyes as he turns his attention to the horizon. Wind whips her loose linen skirt and the flames of her hair. She cups her hands around her eyes, twisting slowly in place, craning to look in all directions. This is exactly what Sinbad did yesterday and he lets her look her fill, though he can tell with one quick glance that there are no ships.

She stares at the empty sea for a long time. He lets her. They need to figure out how to lay a signal fire, but there's no rush. There's no one out there to see it.

"I feel...I don't know. Creepy." She shivers despite the heat of the sun. "Are you sure that storm didn't drop us off the edge of the map or something?"

"No." He can't be sure of anything, honestly, and he hates it. "But I feel like we'd have noticed something like that."

"It's just eerie." She dips her head, touching her cheek to his bare shoulder. "It's like we're the only two people in the world."

He tightens his arm around her. "We are. In this world." It's not a comforting thought, but she doesn't like being coddled and he refuses to lie to her. Their world right now stretches the length of their tiny island—shore to shore, not horizon to horizon. Until someone finds them, they're the only people in this world, and this world is the only one that matters.

She inhales slowly, drinking in the pure salt air. "Are those shadows other islands?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to build a raft? Try to reach them?"

He's considered this. "Maybe, but not just yet." He kisses her temple. The wind shifts the neckline of her dress, exposing the shiny red sunburn. He needs to keep her out of the sun as much as possible today. "It's only been a couple of days. I'd rather give Doubar and the others more time to find us before risking that crossing."

"You're not afraid of a little water." She turns her head, dark eyes sparkling playfully at him.

"No, but I am afraid of losing you." He raises his other arm, pulling her firmly against his body, warm from the climb.

"I'm tough. You seem to like to forget that fact."

He chuckles. "How can I forget when you're always reminding me? Aye, we could build a good raft with what's on this island, and we could most likely get to that one." He points. "Or that one. But I don't know what we'd find there. Maybe dangerous people or predators. Maybe nothing—no food or fresh water." He shakes his head. "It's a chance I'm not ready to take yet." Doubar and the others will come. They have to.

She touches his lower lip gently with her fingertips, then her mouth. "Fair enough, captain. So what do we do about a signal fire?"

He kisses her once more. That sweet mouth of hers is absolutely addicting. If they didn't have so much vital work to do, he could easily spend whole days lazing on the sand, kissing her, holding her close.

But they do have work that must be done, work that will get them off this island and back with their friends, where they belong. He licks the lush curve of her lip, then reluctantly shifts away. "We need a signal up high we can light at night. But this is the flattest spot on the ridge, and it isn't actually flat."

She inspects the rocky outcropping they're standing on, turning her head to study the ridge as it slopes down toward the water on the other side of the island. The sides of the cliff are steep, with no good exposed places to build a fire.

"You're right. With that slant any gust of wind at all would send a fire down the slope."

"Potentially burning up the whole island." He frowns. "This feels like a problem with a Firouz solution."

She scratches her sunburned nose lightly as she thinks. "It does, but we don't have access to Firouz's brain right now."

"I wish we didn't need Firouz in order to find Firouz."

She laughs. "There's some dark humor in that."

Sinbad doesn't think it's funny at all. "If I had some of his exploding sticks I could blast a flat spot up here. If I had a pickax I could cut one." Being without tools is maddening.

Maeve scratches her sunburned shoulder lightly. "Fuck, that itches. But it hurts when I scratch."

"Then don't scratch."

She levels an irritated glare in his direction. "Shut up. I'm thinking."

"So think without scratching." He captures her hand and pulls it gently away from her shoulder.

She tugs herself free. "I'm not as good as Firouz's exploding sticks, but I could try throwing fireballs at the ridge."

"Your aim is terrible. We're trying not to light the forest on fire, remember?"

She rolls her eyes. "So make a better suggestion."

He considers. They have no tools except their knives and what the island provides. He supposes he could try to flatten a space on the ridge by smashing a handheld rock into the ridge face over and over, like a hammer, but it would take a long time. Possibly days. His shoulders ache just thinking about it.

But their only other option, that he can see, is Maeve's magic.

"How hot can you get?"

"Huh?" She stares at him blankly.

"Hear me out. You can make fire, I've seen you do it a million times. But how hot can you make it?"

"I don't follow."

"Rock melts when it gets hot enough." He holds up a black pebble.

"Ore does. Raw metals—iron or gold or copper." She folds her arms, frowning at him. "That's smelting."

"Those are just different kinds of rock."

She looks supremely doubtful. "I've seen molten metal. I've never seen liquid rock."

"Firouz says that's what erupts from volcanoes. It gets so hot deep inside the mountain that the very rock melts."

"You know I'm not one for religion, but that sounds even more ridiculous than an angry volcano-god. What could possibly exist inside a mountain to make it so hot? And cause such explosions?"

Sinbad shrugs. "I don't know. I'm not Firouz." He really doesn't care what makes volcanoes erupt right now. He's triggered her fierce sense of skepticism, and he needs to refocus her. "Just look." He puts the little black stone in her hand. "What's the difference between this and a lump of ore? Nothing, practically speaking."

"There's every difference," she grumbles, and she's right, but she turns the rock in her fingers, studying it. He returns his hand to her hip, silent, letting her think. She's quiet for a time. Then, "Ores melt at varying temperatures. I'm no smith, but I know that much."

"Right. And if those can melt, surely this can, too?" He touches the rock in her hand lightly. "The question is—can you make it hot enough?"

It's a challenge. She never could resist a challenge. Those sweet, tawny-brown eyes glance back at him. She's still skeptical, but he's got her. "You want me to melt a flat spot on the ridge."

"Yes." Can she? He absolutely believes she has the power. Whether she can access it, control and harness it—that's the question. She's still an apprentice, and she's been without her master for over a year. But he sees no alternative, and they have to light a signal fire their friends can see. Without that fire, the crew of the Nomad could spend weeks hunting for them—even moons. Sinbad has no wish to remain marooned on this tiny island for moons, sex or no sex. He wasn't made to sit still any more than Maeve was.

She exhales, still turning the rock slowly in her fingers. "That kind of heat will take a lot of power."

"You can do it." He draws her wind-whipped hair away from her throat, kissing her warm skin gently. "I've never seen anyone work with fire like you do."

She brushes off his compliment. "All sorcerers are attuned to one element or another. Mine just happens to be fire."

That may be true, but he wasn't lying. He's never seen any magician with the affinity for fire she has. She's special. If anyone can melt rock with magic, it's her.

Finally, Maeve shrugs. She sucks in a swift, determined breath. "What do I have to lose?"

Nothing, as far as Sinbad can see. This has to be done. They don't have a choice. If she exhausts herself, as he's pretty sure she will, there's plenty of warm sand or cool moss for her to sleep on. He can build a signal fire and tend to a tired sorceress; that isn't a problem. But he needs a safe, flat place to put the fire first.

"There's my firebrand." He kisses her shoulder. "I knew you couldn't resist a challenge."

She drops the pebble from her hand and crouches on the narrow, slanting ridge. "Just remember that this was your idea. Not mine."

"Noted." He's the captain. If anything goes wrong, he'll take the blame. But what could go wrong? She'll either succeed in melting a flat space on the ridgetop, or she won't. He crouches behind her, planting one boot firmly against a protruding knob of rock on the slanting surface, and closes his palms over her hips, holding her firmly.

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure you don't fall." She's collapsed after using her magic before. If it happens up here, he's not about to let her go tumbling down the cliff.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she grumbles.

"I know you can do it."

"Your hands say you don't quite believe that," she says dryly, but she doesn't push him away. Good girl. He's just taking a necessary precaution.

Maeve's concentration shifts to the task at hand. "Melting rock. O...kay." She tosses her wind-whipped hair out of her face and places her palms on the slanting rock. Sinbad feels her body shift under his hands as she takes a deep, deep breath.

Sometimes when working magic she recites incantations; this time she does not. He watches over her shoulder, holding her firmly. Her finely-made, long-fingered hands begin to glow red-orange, the color of her magic. Her body stills, tense with her held breath. He holds his, too. Her hands glow brighter, palms firm against the rock below. The color lightens, turning swiftly gold, then lighter yellow, finally turning white-hot. He squints, eyes watering at the pain of that brightness. And slowly, slowly, the rock under her hands begins to glow.

Sinbad has seen the smelting process before. He knows enough to know he never, ever wants to be a metalworker of any kind. It's a frightening sort of alchemy, how men can take rocks from the earth and turn them, through incredible amounts of fire, sweat, and blood, into workable metal. But that's not what Maeve is doing. Her magic heats the rock below, and he can feel it now, the fire of her magic. The air grows hot around her, the rock hotter. He can feel it even through the tough leather soles of his boots. It flows like water through the stones they stand on, her bare feet apparently—thankfully—impervious. The spot just under and around her palms glows sullen and red. He can see waves of heat flowing from her hands, like air shimmers over scorching desert sands.

Suddenly this maybe doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore. Maybe he should have let her throw fireballs at the ridge after all—at least she'd be at a safe distance from the explosions. The slanting rock face around her hands glows brighter, and he shifts his booted feet, uncomfortably hot now. The little waterfall tumbling over the rocks into the pool far below begins to steam angrily.

Yeah, maybe this wasn't such a good idea. The rock glows a deep, bloody red, but it's still very much rock, not liquid. He shifts his feet again. How she can crouch there on her bare toes is beyond him. At this rate she's going to use up all her power and he's going to get badly burned. Still he hesitates to stop her. Breaking a sorcerer's concentration can have disastrous consequences; Dim-Dim drilled that into him from an early age. But which is worse? Letting her continue, or breaking her focus?

The decision is wrested from him when, with a sound like cracking ice, the rock below them suddenly gives way. Maeve screams. They plummet swiftly into darkness inside the cliff.

There's no time to protect her, no time to do anything. His arms clamp hard around her as they fall, pure reflex born of instinct. He's her captain and her lover; keeping her safe is his job. His body knows that just as much as his heart does, and reacts without his conscious control.

Luckily they don't fall the full height of the cliff. They land hard on a rocky outcropping maybe ten feet below the cave-in. Maeve cries out when they hit, a shower of burning-hot bits of rock landing on and around them. They singe like live cinders, glowing angrily red. Sinbad swears. The wind was knocked out of him by the fall but he forces his body up, sweeping the burning rock off himself and Maeve clumsily, nearly blind in the darkness. Fuck, that hurts. She was well on her way to melting those fucking rocks, he's certain of it now, as they spatter molten burns across his flesh. Oh, that's way worse than cinders. He sweeps at them frantically, trying to shield Maeve's still body as the last of the burning rocks spill down. She can reach into a campfire unscathed but the sun managed to burn her delicate skin, so she's not entirely impervious to heat. Whether these rocks can hurt her he doesn't know, and doesn't want to find out. Guilt pulls at him, forcing him to move despite his own pain. He asked her to do this. If she's hurt, it's his fault.

A harsh beam of sunlight fall through the hole they made in the rock above, but it doesn't do much to illuminate their surroundings. The falling bits of half-molten rock finally cease and Sinbad stills, panting, trying to get a good breath back into his spasming lungs. He kneels on a rocky ledge inside the cliff, Maeve's body still and quiet beside him. Cautious, nearly blind after the harsh sunlight on top of the ridge, he stretches his body, leaning over her. He places his cheek near her mouth and holds his own breath.

She's breathing. A soft rush of air leaves her nose, touching his cheek, and he exhales shakily, his heart resuming its swift beat. She's breathing. She's alive. He touches her lips gently with his fingertips, squinting, struggling to see her as his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. A cave. Hell. If he'd known the cliff was hollow, the shell on top so thin, he'd never have suggested trying to melt it.

"Maeve." His voice chokes out of his tight throat, a strained whisper. He strokes her cheek tenderly. "Maeve. Sweetling. Can you hear me?"

"Mm. _Ow_." She flinches.

"Good girl. Open your eyes for me. You can do it." He smooths her hair back gently. She used too much power up there, but this isn't a safe place to rest. He has no idea how big or how secure the ledge they're on is, how far the drop to the bottom of the cave. He needs to take stock of her injuries and get them both the hell out of here. Somehow.

She swallows and shifts, a small whimper of pain leaving her mouth. "Sinbad?"

"I'm here. I'm right here." He's not leaving her.

"What happened?"

"A cave-in." His voice is dark. He couldn't have known, but he's still furious with himself.

"Because of course it did." She grunts softly, struggling to sit up.

"Just stay there for a minute and get your bearings." He puts a hand on her shoulder, urging her to stay down. "Can you tell me what hurts?"

"Everything," she groans. One hand lifts to rub her eyes.

Yeah, he knows the feeling. "Your head, sweetling. Did you hit your head?"

"Mm. I don't think so." She sucks in a deeper breath, which settles him somewhat. Her lungs sound clear and she didn't hit her head. She's awake and talking. All of this is vitally important. He bends low over her once more, unable to help himself. He kisses her mouth gently.

She kisses him back. "I'm okay, I think. How far did we fall?"

"I don't know. Maybe six cubits?"

Maeve shoves at his shoulder. "I'm from the west. Say it so I can understand."

"Uh…" His mind doesn't want to do calculations right now. "Ten feet? Maybe?"

"Could be worse." She hooks her hands on his arms and lets him help pull her upright. "Whoa."

"What's wrong?"

"Just dizzy." She shakes her head slowly. "Too much magic."

"I know." He tucks her close to his chest, letting her settle against him. He asked her to push her magic too far, knowing she'd never back down from a challenge. This is his fault. He strokes her hair out of her face. Her skin is cold and clammy despite the incredible heat she just generated, and she rests her cheek against his bare shoulder instead of pushing him away. This more than anything tells him how tired she is. He needs to get her somewhere safe, somewhere she can rest. A signal fire doesn't matter right now. Nothing matters except her.

"I believe you now, by the way." Her voice is low and tired. "Rock can totally melt. I almost had it."

"You did. I'm sorry. I didn't know the cliff was hollow."

"How could you?" She shivers and tucks herself closer. "I'm cold, Sinbad."

"I know." He can feel the chill in her skin. For once, he wishes she was wearing her brown overskirt, something other than thin white linen to keep her warm. At least she has long sleeves. He strokes her clothed arm, feeling the holes the burning rocks made in the cloth. He owes her some new clothes when they get off this fucking island. "You can sleep in the warm sand once we get out of here, I promise."

"Kay." She sighs. "So how do we get out?"

That's an excellent question. Sinbad's eyes have adjusted enough to see the walls of the cave. They curve inward and up, like an arched ceiling. Without rope, there's no way they can climb back up. If she stands on his shoulders she might— _might—_ be able to reach the hole, but she's too tired to pull herself up and out with just the strength of her arms. He knows that without asking.

If they can't go up, the only other option is down. He hesitantly picks up one of the rocks littering the ledge. It's still hot to the touch but no longer burning. Sinbad drops it over the edge and listens.

It hits bottom quickly, with a small splashing sound—there's water below them. He shouldn't be surprised, since the water in their forest pool has to come from somewhere. It heartens him. Maybe they can follow it and find a way out. It's better than nothing.

"Down?" Maeve asks, watching him. It's too dark to read her eyes, but there's no fear in her voice, only weariness. She needs to rest, but not here. Not yet.

"Down," he agrees. "Let me go first, firebrand."

She doesn't argue. That in itself tells him exactly how tired she is.

He eases himself over the ledge, hanging by his arms, feeling with his feet for solid holds in the wall. His arms ache, especially the shoulder he fell on, which took most of his body weight during the fall. His body is speckled with burns from the falling rocks, but he ignores his bumps and bruises for now. He's the captain. He needs to get Maeve safe.

The light streaming down isn't much, but it allows him to descend without breaking his neck. A slanting pile of boulders on the cave floor is a welcome relief, and he calls up to Maeve when he reaches them.

"The climb isn't too bad, and there are rocks down here. Come slowly."

After a moment he sees her feet, pale in the dim light, then the rest of her, as she slowly slides off the ledge. She shakes with fatigue and he's tense as he watches her descend, terrified that at any moment she'll lose her tenuous grip on the wall. It's a good twenty feet to where he's standing, perched precariously on two jumbled boulders. She'll break something if she falls that far.

But she doesn't. She's tough, as she always tells him. She moves slowly, muscles shaking as she forces them to work, burning energy she doesn't have, but she makes it. He feels his own muscles relax, the knot in his belly loosening slightly, as he reaches for her waist and helps ease her the last few feet down to the boulders.

She's breathing hard and covered in cold sweat, but she's safe. And still standing. He pulls her close, rubbing the back of her neck gently, up under the fall of her hair. "Worst part's over now, firebrand."

"You think." She kisses his mouth softly, then pulls away, beginning to pick her way down the pile of boulders to the cave floor.

Right. He follows, finding his path easier than hers. He's not exhausted, and he has boots to protect his feet from the rough texture of the rocks. He can jump from boulder to boulder, where she crouches and extends one foot at a time, easing herself down the pile.

He doesn't complain. He wants a whole sorceress, not one with torn up feet or broken bones, and he's glad to see she can be careful when she needs to.

The cave floor is bumpy and littered with smaller stones from the cave-in. Several inches of water cover the ground.

"Easy now." Sinbad takes her hand, letting her use him to steady herself on the uneven floor as she reaches the bottom. "The floor's rough."

"I'll live." She shivers as her feet enter the cold water. "Which way?"

He pauses, listening. He thinks the water's flowing toward his left, but he's not sure. That's where he thinks—he _thinks—_ the waterfall is, but after falling so far and scrambling around in the dark he can't be sure. He's hesitant, afraid to be wrong. Maeve is tough, but he can't afford to take chances. He needs to be sure about their direction, especially since they'll be leaving what little light comes through the mouth of the cave-in.

"We need light." Her voice is resigned.

"We can do without."

"But we'll be faster with." She rubs her eyes with the heels of her hands, then raises one. A small ball of soft golden light, smaller than her usual fireballs, appears in her palm. It wavers, flickers, but holds.

"Maeve…"

She ignores his attempt at a protest. "Which way?"

Her light isn't bright, but it's enough. He can see the gleam on the rippling water, and watches which way it goes. "That way." Left, as he originally thought.

Their progress is slow. She's unsteady in this environment without her boots, feeling through the water for each step, cautious for once so she doesn't slice a foot open or fall. Sinbad understands but he's also impatient. Every moment she's using energy making that light, energy she doesn't have to spare. It flickers with each step she takes—she can't keep this up very long. His eyes sweep through the cavern, but he sees nothing that will burn, nothing he can use as a torch. Just rocks and water.

"Can you take energy from me?" he asks finally, after her fourth stumble. "Is that a thing? Something you can do?"

"Yes." Her voice attempts irritation but can't quite manage it. "But you're not a sorcerer, which means you can't willingly give it. Actively taking it from you would use more power than I'd gain."

So the short answer would be no, she can't. Not usefully, anyway. He swears low and stops moving. "Come here." He angles himself in front of her. "Put your arms around me."

"You are _not_ going to carry me." Somewhere she finds the strength to sound insulted.

"I absolutely am."

"No way." She steps back, the light in her palm flickering. "I'm not some tiny little princess! A few steps on the beach was one thing. This ground is too uneven; you'll kill us both."

"You're tall, but you're not heavy." He closes the distance between them again. "Come on. If you wrap your legs around me like you did last night, it'll be fine. We'll make better time."

"No." She steps back again and stumbles. Her arm flails, and a sudden crimson shimmer in the rocky wall catches Sinbad's attention.

"Wait. Do that again." He squints into the darkness.

She concentrates. Her light brightens. She lifts her hand again.

Another red glimmer. They step closer to investigate.

"I don't believe it," she breathes.

Someone at some point has been here before them. A rough little nook has been chiseled out of the rock wall, low, near the waterline, partially hidden behind a boulder. Sinbad reaches in and withdraws a rough linen sack about the size of his cupped hands, filled with raw, uncut rubies.

The gems glow dully in Maeve's light. They're dirty, bits of black rock still clinging to them, rough as any uncut, unpolished stone. Maeve's light kindles a bloody glow within them, though, that tells him exactly what these are. Not garnets. Not beryls. Not spinels. No other red gems have this throbbing, bloody luminosity. These are rubies.

"Where did they come from?" she whispers.

"That is the question." The first question, anyway. But who left them here? Why? And, maybe most importantly, will they be back? Sinbad sucks in a swift breath, then sets the open sack carefully back where he found it.

"What are you doing?"

"Carrying you." He slides his hands under her firm ass, just as he did last night, and lifts. She yips, but has no choice except to wrap those long, strong legs around him. Her arms slide against his bare shoulders and the light in her palm flickers dangerously. He stills, waiting for her to settle. The burns on his skin throb with angry heat when she touches them.

"I told you no!"

"And I ignored you." He settles his arms more firmly around her. "I'm still your captain. It's my prerogative."

"You wouldn't pick up Firouz or Rongar like this!"

She's irritated with him but the flickering of her light has calmed, so he starts forward once more. "I'd put Firouz on my back," he says, perfectly willing to let her be mad at him as long as they make better time. "You and I would have to carry Rongar together. He's too big for one man."

"You're going to break both our necks."

"Never." He may not be quite as agile as her, but he's nimble for a man. "I told you, you're not so heavy. My arms would get tired if I carried you like a princess, but like this you're doing most of the work." She's holding herself up with those strong legs. He's supporting her with his arms, but her weight is more evenly distributed along his body, and he's able to walk easily.

She's silent for a time. Still grumpy at being gainsaid and carried, but Sinbad doesn't mind that. He just wants them out of this cave as quickly as possible. They make far better time when she doesn't have to feel for each step on the sharp, moving rocks underfoot.

"Were those rubies?" she asks finally.

"Yes." Of that he has no doubt. A sultan's ransom in rubies.

"Why'd you leave them?"

"Because you, firebrand, are far more important than a bag of rocks." He kisses her shoulder. "Someone got into this cave and left that sack there, which means there has to be a way out. I want to find it and get back to the light and air before deciding what to do about the rubies."

She touches her mouth to his cheek. "Why do you have to go and be sweet when I'm trying to be mad at you?"

He chuckles. "This is teamwork, firebrand. You be the light. I'll be the legs."

"Fair enough."

Good girl. She doesn't bend easily, but she's learning. "Besides, I got us in this mess. I should never have asked you to melt that rock."

"You didn't know." She strokes his hair with gentle fingers. "And we're okay, so it doesn't matter."

They're not okay yet. Not until he gets them out. But he's glad she's not upset at him for causing the cave-in. He'd never purposefully do anything to hurt her like that.

After about ten more minutes of steady walking, he pauses. "Snuff that light for a moment, will you?"

She closes her palm willingly, and the little ball of golden light disappears. But the cave isn't plunged into darkness—not quite.

"Light," she breathes.

He nods. Hope lifts his shoulders. He starts forward once more. The cavern is long and narrow, like the ridge that surrounds it, a thin, winding tunnel through the living rock. He walks another few minutes and they turn a corner, and for the first time since falling through the ridge he feels the cool touch of a breeze on his skin. Clear white light slices through a thin fissure in the rock.

Sinbad exhales what feels like an endless breath, the tension in his body relaxing as he skirts several boulders and pauses beside the crack. Thick green leaves wave in the breeze. He releases his grip on Maeve and lets her slide to the rocky floor.

She steps through the narrow opening and he follows just behind. They emerge into thick jungle, and he can hear the sound of their waterfall, so it can't be too far away. He closes his eyes against the bright green light filtering through the trees and thanks whatever gods brought them safely out. He's a sailor, a man of wind and water—being underground unnerves him. He hates it. Slowly he opens his eyes again.

Maeve sits on a fallen tree, eyes closed, breathing deeply. She looks awful. Her skin is ashen-grey, and she's filthy, covered with dark smears of gritty, sooty dirt. Bright, angry burns speckle her exposed skin, where the half-melted rocks hit her, and several inky bruises are already forming on her legs. Some of the deeper scratches on her shins reopened at some point, too, streaking her legs with red. She's an absolute mess. He probably looks just as bad.

But they're alive. They're alive, and he's beyond thankful for that. He steps forward and slips his arms around her, holding her close. She licks the sweat on his abdomen, then turns her head and rests against him. "You did it." Her tired voice is exhausted but happy. "You got us out."

"We got us out. Teamwork, remember?"

"Yeah." She yawns. "I don't like being underground."

"Me, neither." Her beautiful hair is tangled to hell; he's careful not to pull as he strokes it. "Are you still mad at me for picking you up?"

"No. But don't make a habit out of it."

He'd tell her not to make a habit out of overextending her magic, but that was his fault this time, so he holds his tongue. "Come on, then, sweetling. You need food and a rest." And a wash, but that can wait.

She lets him pull her to her feet. "I want bread. And cheese." She scratches the sunburn on her shoulder and bends to inspect the new burns on her legs. "And ale."

Maeve complains about a lot, but never about food, no matter how poor its quality. Sinbad suspects there have been times when she struggled to feed herself but he knows better than to ask. Her pride won't thank him for the questions. Now it's her exhaustion talking, and she has every right to be grumpy. He chuckles and pulls her close, tucking her tight to his side as they start through the underbrush, toward the sound of the waterfall.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one more old story from the '90s that I'd planned on posting, but I ran into a couple of complications. I didn't realize that part of it is still up on my other profile on ff.net - I thought I'd taken it down during one of my cleanups. I also didn't remember that I never finished posting it, and I'm not sure why, because it's been completed forever. I don't want to double-post it, so while I'm deciding what to do you can take a look at the first few chapters if you want. It's called Vital Stars under the author's name of Cris.

Maeve's steps are slow as they make their way back to their campsite. Sinbad watches her carefully. He'd honestly prefer to keep carrying her, but he has no reasonable excuse to now that they're out of the cave. In the pitch blackness of the twisting cavern she couldn't see where she put her bare feet, and the wet volcanic rock underfoot was razor-sharp and uneven. She's still exhausted from using too much magic and Sinbad isn't convinced she's entirely unhurt from their fall, but they're back in the light, and the soft moss and earthen forest floor can't hurt her. He holds his tongue and doesn't press the issue. She's walking slowly but her steps are sure, her ankles and knees steady. She's weary and probably hurting, but he can't see anything physically wrong with her.

Sinbad himself aches from the soles of his feet to the top of his skull. He didn't bother taking stock of his own body while underground, far more concerned with Maeve, who blacked out when they fell. Now he takes a moment to assess his injuries. Worst is his left shoulder, which took most of his weight and some of Maeve's when they crashed through the roof of the cave. He suspects something may be torn inside, but he's not Firouz and he can't say for sure. The little pocked burns from the half-melted rocks that showered down on them hurt like no other burn he's ever had. He raises his right arm and examines several. They're small but deep, the edges warped and shiny-red, as if the skin itself melted at the touch of something so hot. Maybe it did. Not for the first time, he aches for Firouz's knowledge. Maeve can make fire, but that doesn't mean she knows everything about it. Firouz would know how best to treat their burns so they don't fester. Ordinarily Sinbad wouldn't worry too much—considering the rough life they lead, he and his crew are always healing from something or other. But on this little island they have no access to medical supplies and he doesn't know enough about healing plants to know if anything here is useful.

When they finally emerge from the jungly forest, Maeve sighs happily.

"Are you still cold, firebrand?" He touches her hip gently.

"Freezing." She heads for their campsite, which is on the beach but safely shadowed by the nearby trees. The afternoon sun blazes down, telling Sinbad that once again they've missed a midday meal and rest. While they're stuck here there's no real need to keep to a schedule, he supposes, but it would make him feel better. Letting her go without makes him feel like a terrible captain. Today he had no choice, no control over the situation once they fell, but he feels intensely guilty nonetheless, especially when she steps into the light and he sees the sickly blue-grey pallor of her skin. He only has one crewmember right now, so why has taking care of her proven so difficult?

Because it's Maeve. The answer supplies itself as readily as the question. She's not accident-prone—well, except for her magic—not clumsy, and not overly rash, but she's heedlessly stubborn in pursuit of a goal, and danger seems drawn to her just as surely as Sinbad is. He loves her unequivocally, but being stranded with any other crewmember would be much, much easier.

Easier, but not as fun. He steps up behind her as she stills in the sunshine, basking in the baking heat pouring down. His arms slip around her, drawing her against his chest. Her skin is still cold to the touch, and he's unnerved by the color. She's always pale, but he's never seen a living person tinged blue before.

If she notices the unhealthy color she doesn't seem to care. She turns in his arms and presses close, shivering lightly even with the heat of the afternoon sun on her.

"Come on. Let's get you settled and warmed up." Again Sinbad stops himself from picking her up. She doesn't like it, and his shoulder won't thank him for it either. Instead he tucks his arm around her waist, and they cross the small distance to their campsite.

Maeve doesn't complain about stepping back into the shade. Hopefully the lessons learned yesterday are still with her. She drops to her knees, reaching for her woolen cloak and wrapping it swiftly around herself with a sound of pure animal contentment. Fuck, that's sexy. Not the lump of wool she's become, curled on her side, completely encased in her cloak like a caterpillar in a cocoon, but the sound she made as she moved, somewhere between a hum and a moan of pleasure. He drops to a seat beside her with a groan. She's a shapeless heap of wool, nothing of her showing save several stray wisps of flame-colored hair, glinting in the light.

Reaching behind him, Sinbad plucks a handful of dates from the stalks she harvested yesterday. They're slightly wrinkled and softer today; he needs to put some out in the sun to dry, dark and sticky-soft. That's how he likes them best. For now he taps what he thinks is Maeve's shoulder. "Give me your hand."

Her voice emerges somewhat muffled from inside her cloak, but her words are perfectly clear. "No. I'm never moving again."

He rolls his eyes. She's tired and has every right to be a little petulant, but he actually knows what he's doing right now. "Come on, sweetling. I have food for you. I'm no sorcerer, but I lived with Dim-Dim long enough to know what to do when you overreach your magic." She needs to eat to replenish her energy. Then she can sleep all she likes. He'll fish a little later and bring her something more substantial, but he doesn't want her going to sleep with an empty stomach.

"If it's not bread or ale, I'm not interested." The girl-shaped lump inside the cloak shifts as she digs her sharp shoulder and hipbone into the warm sand, hollowing out a little nest to lie in.

He chuckles and rubs the upturned curve of her other hip. "Come on. Don't make me uncover you."

"You wouldn't dare." Her voice tells him she's not quite as sure as she'd like to be about that.

"I'll take that cloak away completely if you don't eat." He won't really. Not knowing how cold she is, not after seeing that blue-grey tinge to her skin. But just the threat of it works, as a moment later her hand appears from under the heavy wool. He presses several dates into her palm. "Once we're back in civilization you can have all the bread you want, I promise. And you and Doubar can get as drunk as you please."

She pushes a fold of her cloak away from her head, revealing her face without uncovering anything else. "Real, leavened bread, not that flat stuff. And butter." She bites into a date.

Sinbad bites into one as well, resting his other hand on the sweet curve of her hip, still buried in her cloak. They'll have to sail further north than their usual routes to find butter, which southerners don't eat. He doesn't mind. He'll do whatever he can to make her happy. "Tall bread and butter. Anything else?"

"Music," she sighs, tossing a date pit in the cold ashes of the fire. "I miss hearing Doubar sing." She squints over her shoulder, tawny-dark eyes appraising him. "And don't you try. Your voice is only good for barking orders."

He laughs and tosses his pit into the cold fire. "I won't. Doubar has the voice in this family, and I'm man enough to admit it." He misses Doubar's voice, too, now that she mentions it. His laugh more than his song, but it amounts to the same thing. They both miss the big bear of a man.

"Before you sleep, tell me, are you hurt anywhere?" He brushes her tangled hair back, the mussed locks bright with color even in the shade. Fiery glints of red and orange flame up as he strokes her sweet curls. "That was a hard fall, and then a scramble down those boulders."

She shrugs off his concern. "I hurt. I'll live."

"Let me see your feet, at least." He suspects this request will pique irritation, but at the moment he doesn't care. He's more concerned with making sure she's unharmed. She wasn't walking as if her feet hurt, but those rocks inside the cavern were as treacherous as the barnacle-encrusted reef. If she's cut the sole of her foot, they need to treat it as soon as possible.

"No. I told you, I'm never moving again." She bites into her second date and doesn't budge.

If that's the way she's going to be about it. He moves his own aching body, shifting toward the end of her cloak, and pulls her feet into his lap.

"Hey!" she protests as he uncovers her lower legs. "You're making a bad habit of ignoring me."

"I didn't ignore you. I moved you. Eat your food."

"You did both. Now and back in the cave, when you picked me up." She tosses another pit into the fire. "It's a dangerous habit, captain."

Oh, he knows. He's felt her fury before. But she's not angry right now so much as tired and grumpy. A cranky sorceress he can handle. He traces his thumb lightly over the delicate knob of her anklebone.

She crooks her arm and drops her head back to rest against it, eyes falling shut. "I didn't take you for a feet man."

He chuckles. "I'm not. Hold still."

"If you tickle me, I'll kick you in the face."

"Noted, firebrand. I said hold still." He takes her warning very seriously. Plenty of girls might teasingly threaten to kick or bite, but this one means it, and she's strong. He cups her ankle in his hand, once again surprised by how physically small she is. Because she's so tall and has such a burning, vibrant presence, she seems bigger than she actually is. Only when he touches her, holds her, is he reminded. His hand wraps easily around her slender ankle, fingers and thumb overlapping. He applies gentle pressure until she yields, bending her knee and ankle slightly, exposing the sole of her foot. He runs the pad of his thumb lightly over the smooth skin, brushing away sand. A shudder shivers through her body and she sucks in a voiced breath, but she doesn't kick.

The skin on the sole of her foot is pale peach, smooth but tough from exposure. She likes going barefoot, and it shows. He slips the pad of his thumb along the graceful curve of her high, arched instep and presses gently.

"What are you doing?" One dark eye cracks open, watching him warily.

"Nothing. I thought you wanted to sleep."

"I do."

"So sleep. Ignore me." He presses a little harder and another shiver bleeds through her. "You have cute feet."

"That's one I've never heard before." She closes her eyes again. "And quit it. I'm not cute."

She isn't. There's absolutely nothing cute about her, except possibly her grumpy mood. Every part of her is long and lean, delicate yet strong. She's beautiful. Regal. A hundred other words he might use if he were a poet. But not cute. He presses into her instep again, harder, moving his thumb in a slow little circle.

An abrupt noise of surprised pleasure leaves her mouth and her body shifts in a way he's quickly learning to recognize. "What the hell—"

"Shh. Go to sleep." He strokes his thumb firmly down the midline of her foot.

Her other foot kicks out, but there's no fire behind it. He catches her easily and wraps his hand around her ankle. He sets her first foot down gently and switches his attention over.

"Go to sleep," he croons, brushing the sand from the bottom of this foot. They're both unhurt and he could easily stop now, but he's fascinated by how sensitive she is here, and how little she seemed to realize it before he touched her.

"My feet are fine." She pulls at her ankle in his grasp but the effort is halfhearted at best. "Let me go."

"I thought you were supposed to be sleeping." He raises her leg and kisses the inside of her ankle.

"I thought you weren't a feet guy."

"I'm not." His lips travel up her slender calf. He holds her to him firmly but there's no need; she's not even pretending to fight him anymore. She's thoroughly worn out and he probably should just let her rest, but now that he's tasted her skin, heard her soft sound of pleasure, he can't make himself. He'll be gentle. He's tired and battered, too.

He swirls his tongue at the back of her knee, tasting the salt of dried sweat. She gasps as he uncovers her, exposing more of that sweet skin.

"This is—oh—" She sucks in a breath as he nips the silken skin of her inner thigh. "—not how Dim-Dim says to t-treat—"

"The overuse of magic. I know." He holds the tender inside of her leg against his cheek, letting the rough texture of his stubble rasp over her. "But you know me. I go above and beyond." He grins. Dim-Dim would kill him for not letting her rest. He had every intention to until he touched her, until she made that surprised sound of thoroughly sexual pleasure. Now he needs the taste of her, the feel of her body wrapped around him. He'll be gentle. He'll be sweet. And they can sleep after, both of them. As long as she wants.

He places tiny, sucking kisses up the inside of her thigh, touching her skin with his tongue. Her skin is still the color of ice under her sunburn, and cold to the touch. He's pretty sure he can fix that. He presses her open gently, palms firm on the muscle of her inner thighs, feeling the tremble of her body, hearing her swift, soft breaths. That short white skirt is no impediment to what he wants. He strokes her bare folds gently, so gently, with the lightest touch of his thumb.

"Do you want me to stop?"

She's vibrant pink and perfect between her legs, and so wet that he knows the answer without asking. But he asks anyway, giving her the option to pull away, to curl back up in her cloak and go to sleep.

"I hate you." Her needy tone and the way her body moves say otherwise.

He presses a feather-light kiss to the glistening jewel of her clit, just visible as he spreads her wide. Her breath catches in a little whine and she lifts her hips, asking for more. He blows a soft breath against her folds, making her shiver.

"I don't think you hate me."

"I will in a minute if you don't change my mind."

He chuckles. He's not generally into teasing and right now he wants the taste of her more than he wants to hear her ask for his mouth. He licks his lips and kisses her clit again, slow, just a little firmer, feeling her body melt beneath his. She exhales a soft moan when he opens his mouth and licks gently, his tongue soft, sliding through her folds, up over her clit, slowly, sweetly, once and then again, and again. Her salt-sweet taste calms his protective instinct but kindles his need, his cock hard and heavy between his legs, aching to be buried within her. He ignores it for the moment, licking her slowly, intent on her sweetness, her pleasure, the feel of her under his hands, his tongue. One of her hands is in his hair, stroking, urging him on. He needs no urging. But he won't be hurried, ignoring how her hips shift and jerk, her high, pleading cry for him to go faster.

"No," he says, lifting himself for just a moment, sliding his hands up her body, ridding her of her white linen dress in one smooth movement. "Just relax."

Normally they both like a harder, rougher fuck, but he refuses to subject her body to that right now. He kisses her mouth lightly, and licks her stiff nipples on his way back down her body. He presses a kiss to the bare velvet skin of her mound and sinks two fingers slowly into her as he licks her clit softly.

She comes hard as he curls his fingers against her plush, wet inner walls. He holds her open, holds her still, licking slowly, continuing through her orgasm and the incredibly sensitive moments after. She writhes against him, but he's stronger. He closes his mouth around the tiny jewel of her clit and sucks lightly, fingers pressing inside just how she likes. She curses and comes again, back arching beautifully, her face a perfect mask of pure hedonistic pleasure. He revels in it, in what he can make her feel, make her body do. Finally she sobs for him to stop, too over-sensitive to handle any more. He releases her gently, sliding his body alongside hers, turning her to her side, spooning his body behind hers.

She's liquid in his arms, fully spent, but the icy blue pallor of her skin is long gone, replaced by the peachy-pink flush of sex. When he strokes his hand down her body she's deliciously warm to the touch.

"I think we invented a new way to tend to an overtired sorceress." He nuzzles her throat gently, tongue peeking out to taste sweat and skin.

She reaches behind herself, blind but unerring, finding the hard heat of his throbbing length.

"Careful, firebrand." He hisses, unable to stop himself from thrusting gently into her hand. "You can't have that right now. You're too tired." He's desperate for her, but he'll live. He's suffered through blue balls before and he will again; that's life.

"Since when do you get to decide what I'm too tired for?" Her words are indignant but her voice is languid, just-fucked and full of the exhaustion he can feel in her body.

"Since you said you were never moving again."

Her deft hand pulls the laces of his _sirwal_ free. She drapes her top leg lazily over his, pressing the lush, wet heat between her legs so temptingly close. "I'm not moving. But you can."

Can he? Dim-Dim really would kill him. But she's offering, and he can feel her heat through the thin linen of his _sirwal_. He swallows hard, the decision agony. She's so tired. But she's lusciously warm and pink, pressed so invitingly against him. He runs his hand over her sunburned cheek, down her throat, cups her firm breast. She arches into his palm with a soft little noise and destroys his willpower.

She's so wet and he sinks into her easily, perfectly, in love with her melting little moan. He rocks their bodies together slowly, sweetly, hands on her breasts, her gently arched torso, stroking her velvet mound. He can feel her exhaustion, her satisfaction, her body boneless in the aftermath of pleasure. His fiery beauty. He sucks lightly on her earlobe and slips two fingers between her legs, cautiously gentle as he finds her clit once more.

She jerks in his hands even as a soft whimper escapes her lips. "I can't again, Sinbad. Not now."

He releases her earlobe and nuzzles the devastatingly soft skin behind it. "I think you can." As a man he envies how multiorgasmic most women can be. She's tired, but he suspects that's not a barrier to pleasure. Her head drops forward and he sucks at the slender column of her throat. "Gentle, sweetling. You're a wildfire, but you don't always have to be an inferno."

"You bring it out in me."

He knows. She brings it out in him, too. He holds her firmly with one arm, strokes her clit gently with the other hand, rocking their bodies slowly, like the tide. It feels incredible. Her slickness coats his length, her tight heat accepting him as he presses into her, then withdraws, her body soft, liquid-sweet in his arms. He presses low on her abdomen with his palm and he can feel her body shift as he enters her, feel the press of his cock up inside her. It's overwhelmingly intimate.

She moans softly as his hand presses down. He strokes her damp skin with his thumb. "You like that?"

She nods.

He keeps his hand where it is, just above the bone of her mound, pressing into the softness of her, firm but not hard, feeling the stretch of her body each time his cock pushes deep. And she proves him right when, as he strokes her softly, her head falls back and she comes around him. Her silky muscles milking him is too much to take and he follows, spilling inside her though he knows he shouldn't. He's too wrapped up in her to move; it feels too good to stop. He presses deep and holds there as pleasure takes him, his hand low on her belly, his cock deep within her. He groans into her shoulder, tempted to bite down. Everything that means anything in this world is in his arms and he closes his eyes, body shuddering at the force of the pleasure flowing through him.

When he finally relents, slipping from her and easing the tension of his arms around her, he's not sure what to say. He feels like he needs to apologize, but the words won't come. He kisses her sunburned shoulder, where he just managed not to bite her, apologizing with his mouth, if not his words. It was one slip-up, and he'll do his best to make sure it doesn't happen again. He's a little surprised she didn't stop him, honestly.

Until he shifts and she slips onto her back, her body boneless, pooling like liquid as he gently moves her. Dark eyelashes flutter. A soft smile touches his mouth. She's asleep.

"I guess we really did wear you out today." He touches her gently, running his fingertips lightly over her cheek, hovering near the corner of her mouth. Her lips moue briefly and touch the pad of his thumb with a tender kiss. Sweet thing. He spoons his body around hers once more and wraps them both up in her cloak. She probably doesn't need the extra warmth anymore but he's not willing to take a chance with her health. They can both rest for a while. When he wakes he'll fish and feed her. For now having her safe in his arms is enough.


End file.
